y";^^^>^M>i2^-^ 


Annals  of  the 

Life  of  Shakespeare. 


Copyright,    1901 

By 

THE    UNIVERSITY    SOCIETY 


c. 


1^ 


Shakespeare's  Birthplace,  1769. 
{From  the  Gcnflonnn' s  Afao-azine.) 

1564.  In   the   Parish   Register  preserved  in  the 

Church  of  the  Holy  Trinity,  Straford-on-Avon,  War- 
wickshire, is  enshrined  the  following  brief  record  of 
Shakespeare's  nativity — the  entry  of  his  baptism,  which, 
it  may  be  assumed,  took  place  during  the  first  week  of 
the  child's  life  : — 

1564.    April  26.     Gulielnius  iilius  Johannes  Shakspere. 

A  fairly  old  tradition  fixes  April  22  or  23  as  the  poet's 

birthday;    the  latter  date,  the  day  of  St.  George,  Eng- 


(Facsimile  of  the  Registry  of  Shakespeare's  Baptism.) 


if 
xf 


1564  ANNALS  OF  THE 

land's  patron  saint,  is  fittingly  associated  with  the  birth  of 
England's  national  poet. 

The  researches  of  generations  of  students  have  put  us 
in  possession  of  many  minute  facts  connected  with  Shake- 
speare's family  history,  with  the  environments  of  his  early 
life,  and  with  the  various  elements  that  may  have  con- 
tributed to  the  fostering  of  his  mighty  intellect. 

The  "  Johanues  Shakespeare,"  \\  illiam  Shakespeare's 
father,  mentioned  in  the  entry  of  baptism,  was  a  person 
of  importance  in  the  borough  at  the  time  of  the  birth  of 
his  first  son  and  third  child.  The  son  of  Richard  Shake- 
speare, a  farmer  of  Snitterfield,  a  village  about  three 
miles  distant,  he  appears  to  have  settled  at  Stratford  about 
155 1,  and  to  have  traded  in  all  sorts  of  agricultural  prod- 
uce and  the  like.  The  municipal  books  attest  his  grow- 
ing prosperity,  though  the  earliest  notice,  in  April  1552, 
refers  to  a  fine  paid  by  him  for  having  a  dirt-heap  before 
his  house  in  Henley  Street.  Successively  "  ale-taster," 
town  councillor,  one  of  the  four  constables  of  the  court- 
leet,  affeeror  {i.e.  an.assessor  of  fines  for  offences  not  ex- 
pressly penalised  by  statute),  chamberlain,  he  attained  to 
the  rank  of  alderman  in  1565,  head-bailiff  in  1568,  and 
chief  alderman  in  1571. 

John  Shakespeare's  prosperity  seems  to  date  from  the 
time  of  his  marriage,  in  1557,  with  Mary,  youngest  daugh- 
ter of  Robert  Arden,  a  wealthy  farmer  of  Wilmcote,  As- 
ton Cantlowe,  near  Stratford,  probably  distantly  con- 
nected with  the  ancient  and  distinguished  Arden  family  of 
Warwickshire.  Robert  Arden  possessed  property  at 
Snitterfield,  and  among  his  tenants  there  was  Richard 
Shakespeare,  John's  father.  Mary  Arden  was  the  young- 
est of  seven  daughters ;  her  father,  dying  in  1556,  left  her 
the  chief  property  at  Wilmcote,  called  Ashbies,  extend- 
ing to  fifty-four  acres,  together  with  a  sum  of  money ; 
she  had  also  an  interest  in  some  property  at  Snitterfield  ; 
with  her  sister  Alice  she  was  appointed  executrix  of  her 
father's  w^ill. 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE 


1568=9 


On  September  15,  1558,  their  first  child,  Joan,  was  bap- 
tised in  the  church  of  Holy  Trinity ;  the  second,  Mar- 
garet, on  December  2,  1562;  both  children  died  in  in- 
fancy. 

Two  or  three  months  after  the  birth  of  their  third 
child,  William,  a  terrible  plague  ravaged  Stratford. 

The  birth-place  of  the  poet  was  in  one  of  two  adjoin- 
ing houses  in  Henley  Street,  possibly  in  the  room  now 
shown  to  reverent  pilgrims.     Of  the  two  houses  upon  the 


The  village  of  Wilmecote  or  Wincot  in  1852. 


north  side  of  the  street,  the  one  on  the  east  was  pur- 
chased by  John  Shakespeare  in  1556,  but  that  on  the  west 
(though  there  is  nothing  connecting  it  with  him  before 
1575)  has  been  known  "from  time  immemorial"  as 
"  Shakespeare's  Birthplace,"  perhaps  from  the  circum- 
stance of  its  being  occupied  until  1806  by  descendants  of 
the  poet. 

1568=9.  As  bailiff,  John  Shakespeare  entertained 
actors  at  Stratford,  the  Queen's  and  Earl  of  Worcester's 
companies — evidently  for  the  first  time  in  the  history  of 
the  town. 


1577=8 


ANNALS  OF  THE 


1571.  At  the  age  of  seven,  according  to  the  cus- 
tom of  the  time,  WilHam  Shakespeare's  school-hfe  prob- 
ably began :  he  no  doubt  entered  the  Free  Grammar 
School  at  Stratford,  known  as  "  the  King's  New  School." 
The  teaching  at  the  school  during  Shakespeare's  school- 
course  was  under  efficient  control;  Walter  Roche,  Fel- 
low of  Corpus  Christi  College,  and  rector  of  Clifford,  was 
appointed  master  in  1570,  and  Thomas  Hunt,  curate  (and 
subsequently  vicar)  of  the  neighbouring  village  of  Lud- 
dington,  held  the  office  in  1577. 


Court  yard  of  the  Grammar  School,  Stratford. 
(From  an  engravhtg  by  Fairholi.) 

1575.  Queen  Elizabeth  visited  the  Earl  of  Leices- 
ter at  Kenilworth.  William  may  have  witnessed  the 
Kenilworth  festivities ;  in  the  next  year  two  accounts 
were  published  {cp.  Preface  to  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream). 

1577«8.  About  this  time  William  was  removed 
from  school,  owing  to  his  father's  financial  difficulties. 
Fourteen  was  the  usual  age  for  boys  to  leave  school  and 
commence  apprenticeship,  if  they  were  not  preparing  for 
a  scholarlv  career. 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE  1577=8 

The  Stratford  records  give  us  the  clearest  evidence  that 
John  Shakespeare's  prosperity  had  come  to  an  end :  his 
attendance  at  the  council  meetings  became  more  and  more 
irregular,  and  he  was  unable  to  pay,  in  1578,  an  assess- 
ment of  fourpence  weekly  for  the  relief  of  the  poor  levied 
on  the  aldermen  of  the  borough,  and  in  1579  a  levy  for 
the  purchase  of  weapons.  In  the  former  year  he  was 
forced  to  mortgage  "  the  land  in  Wilmcote  called  Ash- 
bies  "  for  £40  to  Edmund  Lambert,  his  brother-in-law, 
to  revert  if  repayment  were  made  before  Michaelmas 
1580:  in  the  latter  year,  their  interest  in  the  Snitterfield 
property  was  sold  for  £40  to  Robert  Webbe  (Alexander 
W'ebbe  was  the  husband  of  Agnes  Arden,  Shakespeare's 
aunt).  Towards  Michaelmas  1580  John  Shakespeare 
sought  to  redeem  the  \Mlmcote  estate  from  Edmund  Lam- 
bert, but  his  proposal  was  rejected  on  the  plea  that  there 
were  other  unsecured  debts. 

On  September  6,  1586,  John  Shakespeare  was  deprived 
of  his  position  on  the  council,  on  the  ground  that  he 
"  doth  not  come  to  the  halls  when  warned,  nor  hath  not 
done  of  long  time.''  About  this  time  he  lost  an  action 
brought  against  him  by  one  John  Brown,  and  it  is  re- 
ported that  "  predictiis  Johannes  Shackspeve  nihil  habet 
iinde  distringi  potest,"  i.e.  *'  the  aforesaid  John  Shak- 
speare  has  no  goods  on  which  distraint  can  be  levied." 

There  were  in  all  eight  children  born  to  John  Shake- 
speare :— Two  daughters  who  died  in  infancy ;  William  ; 
Gilbert,  baptised  October  13,  1566  (living  at  Stratford  in 
1609)  ;  Joan,  baptised  April  15,  1569,  married  William 
Hart  of  Stratford  (died  in  1646)  ;  Anne,  baptised  Sep- 
tember 28,  1571  (died  in  1579)  ;  Richard,  baptised  March 
II,  1574  (died  at  Stratford  in  161 3)  ;  Edmund,  baptised 
May  3,  1580  (became  an  actor,  and  died  in  London  in 
December  1607). 

Nothing  is  definitely  known  concerning  William's  oc- 
cupation on  his  withdrawal  from  school.  The  oldest  local 
tradition  seems  to  point  to  his  being  apprenticed  to  "  a 

5 


1582 


ANNALS  OF  THE 


butcher," — perhaps  to  his  own  father,  who  is  variously 
described  as  "  a  dealer  in  wool,"  "  a  glover,"  ^'  a  husband- 
man," "  a  butcher,"  and  the  like. 

1582.  In  November  of  this  year  William  Shake- 
speare married  Anne  Hathaway,  who  it  would  seem  was 
the  daughter  (otherwise  called  Agnes)  of  Richard  Hath- 
away, husbandman  of  the  little  village  to  the  west  of 
Stratford  called  Shottery ;  he  had  died  during  the  year, 
his  will,  dated  September  i,  1581,  being  proved  on  July 
9,  i.e.  some  four  months  before  the  marriage. 

Anne  Hathaway  was  twenty-seven  years  old,  and  Wil- 
liam Shakespeare  nineteen,  when  they  became  man  and 
wife.     The  marriage  did  not  take  place  at  Stratford,  but 


Ann  Hathaway's  Cottage,  1827. 

possibly  at  Luddington  (three  miles  from  Stratford  and 
one  from  Shottery),  or  at  Temple  Grafton  (about  four 
miles  from  Stratford), — the  registers  of  the  old  churches 
have  disappeared.  It  is  curious  to  note  that  in  the  Epis- 
copal registers  at  Worcester  there  is  a  record  of  a  Hcense 
for  a  marriage  between  "  WiUielmum  Shaxpere  and  An- 

6 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE  1587 

nam  Whateley  de  Temple  Grafton  "  dated  27th  of  No- 
vember, 1582,  where  "Whateley"  may  be  an  error  for 
"  Hathwey,"  due  to  some  exceptional  accident  or  in- 
tended disguise;  possibly  (but  less  likely)  the  entry  re- 
fers to  some  other  "  William  Shakespeare."  There  is, 
however,  preserved  in  the  Bishop's  Registry  at  W^orcester, 
a  bond  dated  November  28,  1582,  "  against  impediments," 
in  anticipation  of  the  marriage  of  Shakespeare  and  Anne 
Hathaway — "  William  Shagspere  one  thone  parte,  and 
Anne  Hathwey  of  Stratford  in  the  dioces  of  Vv^orcester, 
maiden  "  ;  by  this  deed  Fulke  Sandells  and  John  Rich- 
ardson, husl)andmen  of  Stratford  (but  more  specifically 
farmers  of  Shottery,  the  former  being  "  supervisor  "  of 
Richard  Hathaway's  will)  bound  themselves  in  a  surety  of 
£40  to  "  defend  and  save  harmless  the  right  reverend 
Father  in  God,  John  Lord  Bishop  of  W^orcester  "  against 
any  complaint  that  might  ensue  from  allowing  the  mar- 
riage between  William  and  Anne  with  only  once  asking 
of  the  banns  of  matrimony.  There  is  no  reference  to  the 
bridegroom's  parents ;  and  all  considerations  seem  to 
point  to  the  conclusion  that  the  marriage  was  hastened 
on  by  the  friends  of  the  bride. 

1583.  ^lay  26 ;  under  this  date  we  find  the  bap- 
tism of  Susanna,  daughter  of  William  Shakespeare ;  on 
February  2nd,  1585,  were  baptised  his  twin  children, 
Hamnet  and  Judith,  namicd  after  his  Stratford  friends 
Hamnet  and  Judith  Sadler. 

1587.  On  April  23rd  of  this  year  was  buried  Ed- 
mund Lambert,  the  mortgagee  of  Ashbies ;  in  Septem- 
ber a  formal  proposal  was  made  that  his  son  and  heir, 
John,  should,  on  cancelling  the  mortgage  and  paying 
£40,  receive  from  the  Shakespeares  an  absolute  title  to  the 
estate.  '"Johannes  Shackespere  and  Maria  uxor  ejus, 
simulcum  W^illielmo  Shackespere  filio  suo,"  vrere  parties 
to  this  proposed  arrangement,  which,  however,  was  not 
carried  out,  as  we  learn  from  a  Bill  of  Complaint  brought 

7 


1587  ANNALS  OF  THE 

by  the  poet's  father  against  John  Lambert  in  the  Court  of 
Queen's  Bench,  1589.  There  is  no  evidence  that  WiUiam 
was  at  Stratford  at  the  time  of  the  negotiations.  In  this 
same  year,  1587,  no  less  than  five  companies  of  actors 
visited  Stratford-on-Avon,  including  the  Queen's  Play- 
ers and  those  of  Lord  Essex,  Leicester,  and  Stafford. 
Between  the  years  1576  and  1587,  with  the  exception  of 
the  year  1578,  the  town  was  yearly  visited  by  companies 
of  players. 

It  may  be  inferred  that  these  visits  of  the  actors  to 
Stratford  stimulated  Shakespeare's  latent  genius  for  the 
drama,  and  so  caused  him,  under  stress  of  circumstances, 
to  seek  his  fortunes  with  the  London  players.  Accord- 
ing to  a  well-authenticated  tradition,  borne  out  by  allu- 
sions in  his  own  writings,  the  direct  cause  of  his  leaving 
Stratford  was  the  well-known  poaching  incident — the 
deer-stealing  from  the  park  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  at  Charle- 
cote,  about  four  miles  from  Stratford.  ''  For  this  "  (ac- 
cording to  Rowe's  account  in  1709)  "  he  was  prose- 
cuted by  that  gentleman,  as  he  thought,  somewhat  too 
severely ;  and  in  order  to  revenge  that  ill-usage  be  made 
a  ballad  upon  him,  and  though  this,  probably  the  first 
essay  of  his  poetry,  be  lost,  yet  it  is  said  to  have  been  so 
very  bitter  that  it  redoubled  the  prosecution  against  him 
to  that  degree  that  he  was  obliged  to  leave  his  business 
and  family  in  Warwickshire  and  shelter  himself  in  Lon- 
don." It  is  just  possible  that  the  lampoon  on  Lucy  may 
be  more  or  less  preserved  in  the  following  rather  poor 
verses,  recorded  by  Oldys,  on  the  authority  of  a  very  aged 
gentleman  living  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Stratford, 
where  he  died  in  1703  : — 

"A  parliament  member,  a  justice  of  peace. 
At  home  a  poor  scare-crow,  at  London  an  asse: 
If  lousy  is  Lucy,  as  some  volk  miscall  it. 
Then  Lucy  is  lousy,  whatever  befall  it : 
He  thinks  himself  great, 
Yet  an  ass  in  his  state 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE 


1587 


We  allow  by  his  ears  but  with  asses  to  mate. 
If  Lncy  is  lousy,  as  some  volk  miscall  it, 
Sing  lousy  Lucy,  whatever  befall  it." 

It  is  noteworthy  that  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  was  a  bitter 
persecutor  of  those  who  secretly  favoured  the  old  Faith, 
and  acted  as  Chief  Commissioner  for  the  County  of  War- 
wick, "  touching  all  such  persons  as  either  have  been  pre- 
sented, or  have  been  otherwise  found  out  to  be  Jesuits, 
seminary  priests,  fugitives,  or  recusants  ...  or 
vehemently  suspected  of  such."  In  the  second  return, 
dated  1592,  John  Shakespeare's  name  is  included  among 
nine  who  "  it  is  said  come  not  to  church  for  fear  of  proc- 


A  bird's-eye  view  of  Charlecote  in  172?. 


ess  of  debt,"  but  he  was  possibly  inider  suspicion  for 
some  worse  fault. 

We  have  no  separate  information  concerning  Shake- 
speare between  1587  and  1592,  and  we  cannot  fix  with 
absolute  certainty  the  date  of  his  leaving  Stratford;  but 
in  all  probability  it  may  safely  be  assigned  to  1585-7.  He 
may  have  been  in  London  at  the  time  of  the  national 
mourning  for  Sir  Philip  Sidney  at  the  end  of  1586,  and 
may  even  have  seen  the  famous  funeral  procession.     It 

9 


1587  ANNALS  OF  THE 

should,  however,  be  noted  that,  so  far  as  the  stage  was 
concerned,  there  was  no  employment  in  tow^n  for  Shake- 
speare during  1586,  when  the  theatres  were  closed  owing 
to  the  prevalence  of  the  plague. 

The  traditional  accounts  of  his  first  connection  with 
the  theatres  are  evidently  fairly  authentic : — In  "  Au- 
brey's Lives  of  Eminent  Men  "  (c.  1680)  it  is  stated  that 
"  this  Wm.  being  inclined  naturally  to  poetry  and  acting, 
came  to  London  I  guesse  about  18,  and  was  an  actor  at 
one  of  the  play-houses  and  did  act  exceedingly  well." 
The  old  parish  clerk  of  Stratford  narrated  in  1693,  being 
about  eighty  years  old  at  the  time,  that  "  this  Shakespeare 
was  formerly  in  this  town  apprentice  to  a  butcher,  but 
that  he  ran  from  his  master  to  London,  and  there  was  re- 
ceived into  the  play-house  as  a  serviture,  and  by  this 
means  had  an  opportunity  to  be  what  he  afterwards 
proved."  Rowe's  account  (1709)  is  even  more  likely: — 
''  He  was  received  into  the  company  then  in  being,  at 
first,  in  a  very  mean  rank ;  but  his  admirable  wit,  and  the 
natural  turn  of  it  to  the  stage,  soon  distinguished  him,  if 
not  as  an  extraordinary  actor,  yet  as  an  excellent  writer." 

In  1753  the  compiler  of  the  "  Lives  of  the  Poets  "  states 
that  Shakespeare's  "  first  expedient  was  to  wait  at  the 
door  of  the  play-house,  and  hold  the  horses  of  those  that 
had  no  servants,  that  they  might  be  ready  again  after  the 
performance."  Rowe  does  not  mention  this  tradition, 
though  he  is  said  to  have  received  it  from  Betterton,  who 
heard  it  from  D'Avenant.  Dr.  Johnson  elaborated  the 
story,  adding,  we  know  not  on  what  authority,  that  *'  he 
became  so  conspicuous  for  his  care  and  readiness  that  in 
a  short  time  every  man  as  he  alighted  called  for  Will 
Shakespeare,  and  scarcely  any  other  waiter  was  trusted 
with  a  horse  while  Will  Shakespeare  could  be  had.  This 
was  the  first  dawn  of  better  fortune.  Shakespeare,  find- 
ing more  horses  put  into  his  hand  than  he  could  hold, 
hired  boys  to  wait  under  his  inspection,  who,  when  Will 
Shakespeare  was  summoned,  were  immediately  to  present 

10 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE  1589 

themselves :  '  I  am  Shakespeare's  boy,  sir/  In  time 
Shakespeare  found  higher  employment ;  but  as  long  as 
the  practice  of  riding  to  the  play-house  continued,  the 
waiters  that  held  the  horses  retained  the  appellation  of 
Shakespeare's  boys."  According  to  another  tradition,  re- 
corded by  ]\Ialone  (1780),  "  his  first  office  in  the  theatre 
was  that  of  prompter's  attendant." 

It  is  assumed  that  soon  after  his  arrival  in  London 
Shakespeare  became  connected  with  one  of  the  two  Lon- 
don theatres,  viz.  ''  The  Theatre,"  in  Shoreditch,  built 
by  James  Burbage,  father  of  the  great  actor  Richard  Bur- 
bage,  in  1576;  or  *' The  Curtain,"  in  Moorfields — the 
second  play-house,  built  about  the  same  time  (the  name 
survives  in  Curtain  Road,  Shoreditch :  both  play-houses 
were  built  on  sites  outside  the  civic  jurisdiction,  the  City 
Fathers  having  no  sympathy  wdth  stage-plays.  In  all 
probability  the  former  was  the  scene  of  Shakespeare's 
earliest  activity,  in  whatever  capacity  it  may  have  been. 
Shakespeare  may  have  belonged,  from  the  first,  to  Lord 
Leicester's  Company,  of  which  we  know  he  soon  became 
an  important  member,  and  with  which,  under  various  pa- 
trons, his  dramatic  career  was  to  be  associated.  It  is 
noteworthy  that  in  1587  the  Earl  of  Leicester's  men  visited 
Stratford-on-Avon.  In  this  same  year,  1587,  when  the 
Admiral's  men  re-opened  after  the  plague  Marlowe's 
Tamherlaine  was  among  the  plays  produced  by  them. 

1588.  In  September  of  this  year  the  Earl  of 
Leicester  died,  and  his  company  of  actors  found  a  new 
patron  in  Ferdinando,  Lord  Strange,  who  became  Earl 
of  Derby  on  September  25,  1592. 

1589.  On  August  23,  Greene's  novel  "  Meita- 
phon  "  was  entered  on  the  Stationers'  Registers,  and  was 
soon  issued,  with  a  preface  by  the  satirist  Tom  Nash, 
containing  a  reference  to  "  a  sort  of  shifting  companions 
that  run  through  every  art  and  thrive  by  none  to  leave  the 
trade  of  Noverint  (i.e,  scrivener)  whereto  they  were  born, 


1592  ANNALS  OF  THE 

and  busy  themselves  with  the  endeavours  of  art  that 
could  scarcely  latinize  their  neck-verse,  if  they  should 
have  need:  yet  English  Seneca,  read  by  candle  light, 
yields  many  good  sentences.  Blood  iii  a  Beggar,  and  so 
forth  ;  if  you  intreat  him  fair  in  a  frostie  morning,  he 
will  afford  you  whole  Hamlets,  I  should  say  handfulls  of 
tragical  speeches,  &c."  This  is  the  best  evidence  we  have 
for  the  existence  of  a  lost  play  on  "  Hamlet  "  at  this  early 
date:  its  author  was  almost  certainly  Thomas  Kyd  (born 
1558,  died  1594),  famous  as  the  author  of  "  The  Spanish 
Tragedy."  In  Menaphon  Greene  indulges  in  his  sarcastic 
references  to  Marlowe,  which  are  also  found  in  his  Pcrim- 
cdes  the  Blacksmith  (1588).  Peele,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  held  up,  in  Nash's  Preface,  as  primus  verborum  arti- 
fex.  It  is  clear  that  at  this  time  Greene  regarded  Mar- 
lowe and  Kyd  as  dangerous  rivals :  Shakespeare  was  not 
vet  an  object  of  fear.  Greene  was  chief  writer  for  the 
Queen's  men,  Marlowe  and  Kyd  for  Lord  Pembroke's, 
Peele  was  joining  Greene's  company,  leaving  the  Ad- 
miral's. 

159L  In  this  year  Florio,  subsequently  the  trans- 
lator of  ]\[ontaigne's  Essays,  published  Second  F mites — a 
book  of  Italian-English  dialogues.  A  sonnet  entitled 
Phaeton  to  his  friend  Florio  may  possibly  have  been  writ- 
ten by  Shakespeare :   but  there  is  no  direct  evidence. 

In  this  year  the  Queen's  players  made  their  last  ap- 
pearance at  Court ;  Lord  Strange's  men  made  the  first 
of  their  many  appearances  at  Court. 

"  The  Troublesome  Raigne  of  King  John:'  the  origi- 
nal of  King  John,  was  published  this  vear :  it  was  re- 
issued in  161 1  as  written  by  "  W.  Sh.,"  and  in  1622  as  by 
"  W.  Shakespeare." 

1592.  On  February  19,  Lord  Strange's  men 
opened  the  Rose  Theatre  on  Bankside,  erected  by  Philip 
Henslowe,  theatrical  speculator.  It  would  appear  that 
they  had  generally  acted  at  the  Cross  Keys,  an  inn-yard 

12 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE  1592 

in  Bishopsgate  Street.  They  played  at  the  Rose  from 
February  to  June.  At  this  time  we  find  the  great  actor 
Edward  Alleyn,  Henslowe's  son-in-law,  at  the  head  of 
Lord  Strange's  men,  but  he  was  really  the  Lord  Admiral's 
man:  there  was  evidently  a  short-lived  combination  of 
the  two  companies :   but  they  soon  dissolved  partnership. 

On  March  3,  1592,  Henry  VI.  was  acted  at  the  Rose 
Theatre  by  Lord  Strange's  men :  it  was  in  all  probability 
I  Henry  VI.,  and  was  soon  after  referred  to  by  Nash  in  his 
Pierce'^Penniless  (licensed  August  8)  : — ''  How  would  it 
have  joyed  brave  Talbot  (the  terror  K^f  the  French)  to 
think  that  after  he  had  lain  two  hundred  years  in  his 
tomb,  he  should  triumph  again  on  the  stage,  and  .have  his 
bones  new  embalmed  with  the  tears  of  ten  thousand  spec- 
tators at  least  (at  several  times),  who  in  the  tragedian 
that  represents  his  person  imagine  they  behold  him  fresh 
bleeding"  {cp.  iv.  6,  7). 

With  a  short  break  the  theatres  were  closed  on  account 
of  the  plague  until  after  Christmas  1593.  The  company 
meanwhile  travelled,  and  we  have  notices  of  their  visits 
to  Bristol  and  Shrewsbury  during  that  year :  similar  no- 
tices of  travel  are  extant  for  subsequent  years. 

In  this  same  year,  1592,  on  September  4,  died  Robert 
Greene ;  on  the  20th  of  the  month  his  Groatszvorfh  of  Wit 
was  published,  edited  by  Chettle.  In  this  work  there  is 
an  address  to  his  "  quondam  acquaintance  that  spend  their 
wits  in  making  plays,  R.  G.  wisheth  a  better  exercise  and 
wisdome  to  prevent  his  extremities."  Marlowe,  Nash, 
and  Peele,  are  probably  the  scholar-playwrights  warned 
by  Greene  no  longer  to  trust  the  players.  "  Base-minded 
men  all  three  of  you,  if  by  my  misery  ye  be  not  warned : 
for  unto  none  of  you,  like  me,  sought  those  burrs  to 
cleave — those  puppets,  I  mean,  that  .  speak  from  our 
mouth,  those  antics  garnished  in  our  colours.  Is  it  not 
sti:ange  that  I,  to  whom  they  have  all  been  beholding :  is  it 
not  like  that  you,  to  whom  they  have  all  been  beholding, 
shall  (were  ye  in  that  case  that  I  am  now)  be  both  at 

13 


1593  ANNALS  OF  THE 

once  of  them  forsaken  ?  Yes,  trust  them  not :  for  there 
is  an  upstart  crow,  beautified  with  our  feathers,  that  with 
his  Tiger's  heart  zvrapt  in  a  players  hide  supposes  he  is 
as  well  able  to  bombast  out  a  blank-verse  as  the  best  of 
you:  and  being  an  absolute  Johannes  fae-totiim,  is  in  his 
own  conceit  the  only  shake-scene  irt  a  country.  O  that  I 
might  entreat  your  rare  wits  to  be  employed  in  more 
profitable  courses :  and  let  these  apes  imitate  your  past 
excellence,  and  never  more  acquaint  them  with  your  ad- 
mired inventions.  .  .  .  Yet,  whilst  yau  may,  seek 
you  better  masters !  for  it  is  a  pity  men  bi  such  rare  wits 
should  be  subject  to  such  rude  grooms." 

The  original  of  the  travestied  line  is  to  be  found  in  3 
Henry  VI.,  "  O  tige/s  heart  i^rapt  in  a  zi'oman's  hide  " 
(cp.  Preface),  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  here  we 
have  the  first  direct  evidence  of  Shakespeare's  growing 
pre-eminence  as  an  actor  and  as  a  playwright. 

In  the  month  of  .December,  following  the  publication 
of  Greene's  Groatszvorth  of  Wit  we  have  even  more 
important  evidence  of  Shakespeare's  recognised  pre- 
eminence as  a  man  of  character.  In  his  "  Kind  Hartes 
Dreame  "  Chettle,  the  publisher  of  the  attack,  penned  the 
following  apology : — "  I  am  as  sorry  as  if  the  original 
fault  had  been  my  fault,  because  myself  have  seen  his  (i.e. 
Shakespeare's)  demeanour  no  less  civil  than  he  excellent 
in  the  quality  he  professes,  besides  divers  of  worship  have 
reported  his  uprightness  of  dealing,  which  argues  his 
honesty,  and  his  facetious  grace  in  writing  that  approves 
his  art." 

Shakespeare  probably  referred  to  Greene's  death  soon 
afterwards : — 

"  The  thrice-three  Muses,  mourning  for  the  death 
Of  Learning,  late  deceased  in  beggary."  ^ 

1593.         In    this   year    was    pubUshed    ''  Venus    & 
Adonis,"   dedicated  by  the  poet  to   Henry  Wriothesley, 

^Midsummer  Night's  Dream  (cp.  Preface). 
14 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE  1594 

third  Earl  of  Southampton  as  "  the  first  heir  of  my  inven- 
tion "  {cf.  Preface).  It  is  significant  that  the  printer  of 
the  book  was  Richard  Field,  Shakespeare's  fellow  coun- 
tryman. The  title-page  bore  a  quotation  in  Latin  from 
Ovid's  '*  Amoves  "  : — 

"  Vilia  miretur  viilgits;  miJii  Uavus  Apollo 
Pocula  Castalia  plena  ministret  aqua."  ^ 

(Seven  editions  from  1593-1602,  cp.  Preface.) 
Under  date  "  i  of  June,  1593,"  the  burial  register  of 
the  parish  church  of  St.  Nicholas,  Deptford,  contains  the 
following  entry : — ''  Christopher  Marlow,  slain  by  Fran- 
ci.  Archer,"  whom  we  know  from  another  source  to  have 
been  ''  a  servingman,  a  rival  of  his  in  his  lewd  love." 
Shakespeare  subsequently  referred  to  Marlowe  in  the 
famous  lines : — 

"  Dead  Shepherd !  now  I  find  thy  saw  of  might, 
*  Who  ever  loved  that  loved  not  at  first  sight.'  "  ^ 

1594.  At  the  beginning  of  the  year  "  Titus  An- 
dronicus,'"  described  as  a  ''  new  play,"  was  acted  by  the 
Earl  of  Sussex's  men. 

Lord  Derby  died  on  April  16,  and  was  succeeded  as 
licenser  and  patron  by  Henry  Carey,  Lord  Hunsdon, 
Lord  Chamberlain  (he  died  in  1596,  and  was  succeeded 
by  his  son,  who  became  Lord  Chamberlain  in  1597). 
Shakespeare's  company  performed  for  a  short  time  at 
the  new  theatre  at  Newington  Butts,  and  subsequently 
between  1598  and  1599  at  "The  Curtain"  and  "The 
Theatre." 

Roderigo  Lopez,  the  Queen's  Jewish  physician,  was 
hanged  in  June  {cf.  Preface,  Merchant  of  Venice)  :  Hens- 
lowe  produced  at  the  Rose  on  August  25  "  the  Venesyon 

"  *'  Let  base  conceited,  zvits  admire  vile  things, 
Fair  Phoebus  lead  me  to  the  muses  springs!" 
'  cp.  As  You  Like  It,  III.  v.  8i. 

IS 


1594  ANNALS  OF  THE 

Comedy"  (probably  an  early  version  of  ''  The  Merchant 
of  Venice  ") 

In  December  of  this  year  Shakespeare  performed  be- 
fore the  Queen  at  Greenwich  Palace ;  he  is  named  in  the 
manuscript  accounts  of  the  Treasurer  of  the  chamber : — 
"  William  Kempe,  William  Shakespeare  and  Richard 
Burbage  "  ;  they  acted  two  comedies  or  "  interludes." 

On  December  28,  when  he  was  thus  engaged  at  Green- 
wich, "  The  Comedy  of  Errors  "  was  played  in  the  hall 
of  Gray's  Inn.  There  was  considerable  confusion 
brought  about  by  the  students  of  the  Inner  Temple :  "  and 
after  such  sports,  a  Comedy  of  Errors,  like  to  Plautus  his 
Menechmus,  was  played  by  the  players ;  so  that  night 
was  begun  and  continued  to  the  end  in  nothing  but  con- 
fusion and  errors,  whereupon  it  was  ever  afterwards 
called  the  Night  of  Errors." 

In  this  year  "  The  Taming  of  a  Shrew'' — the  original 
of  Shakespeare's  "  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew " — was 
printed  for  the  first  time ;  and  "  The  first  part  of  the  Con- 
tention betwixt  the  tzvo  famous  houses  of  Yorke  and 
Lancaster''  (cp.  2  Henry  VI.),  was  surreptitiously  pub- 
lished. 

Shakespeare's  second  volume  of  verse,  "  Lucrece,"  was 
published  this  year,  printed  by  Richard  Field,  and  dedi- 
cated to  the  Earl  of  Southampton.  (Five  editions,  1594- 
161 6;   cp.  Preface.) 

Soon  after  the  publication  of  "  Lucrece,"  "  Willohie  his 
Avisa  "  appeared,  with  a  laudatory  address  referring  to 
Shakespeare  by  name:  "And  Shakespeare  paints  poor 
Lucrece'  rape"  (the  poem,  re-published  in  1596,  1605, 
1609,  is  Df  interest  in  connection  with  the  "  Sonnets,"  cp. 
Preface). 

A  similar  reference  is  perhaps  found  in  "  Epicedium,  a 
funeral  song,  upon  the  vertuous  life  and  godly  death  of 
the  right  zvorshipful  the  lady  Helen  Branch  " : — 

"  You  that  have  writ  of  chaste  Lucretia 
Whose  death  was  witness  of  her  spotless  life." 

16 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE  1595 

Alichael  Drayton,  in  the  same  year,  referred  to  the  poem 
in  his  "  Legend  of  Mathilda  the  Chaste  "  : — 

"  Lucrece,  of  whom  proud  Rome  hath  boasted  long, 
Lately  reviv'd  to  live  another  age ;  "  etc. 

(found  also  in  the  1596  edition,  but  expunged  in  later 
copies),  while  the  pious  poet  Robert  Southwell,  executed 
Feb.  20,  1594-5,  in  his  "  St.  Peters  Complaint,  zvith  other 
poems/'  alluded  to  "  J^enus  and  Adonis'': — 

"  Still  finest  wits  are  'stilling  Venus'  rose, 
In  paynim  toys  the  sweetest  veins  are  spent, 
To  christian  works  few  have  their  talents  lent." 

In  this  year  Spenser  possibly  referred  to  our  poet  in 
"  Colin  Clout's  Come  Home  Again  "  as  "  Action,"  i.e. 
Eaglet : — 

"  And  there,  though  last,  not  least  is  Aetion ; 
A  gentler  shepherd  may  no  where  be  found 
Whose   muse,   full   of  high   thought's   invention, 
Doth  like  herself  heroically  sound." 

1595.  In  a  curious  volume  "  Polimanfeia,"  pub- 
Hshed  at  Cambridge,  there  is  a  marginal  reference  to  "  All 
praise  z^'orthy  Lucretia  \  Szveet  Shakespeare  \  Wanton 
Adonis:^ 

A  more  valuable  contemporary  allusion  is  John  Wee- 
ver's  sonnet  "  ad  Gnlielmnm  Shakespeare/'  possibly  be- 
longing to  the  year  1595-6,  though  first  printed  in  1599  in 
"  Epigrams  in  the  oldest  cut,  and  nezvest  fashion.  A 
twice  seven  hours  (in  so  many  zueeks)  study.  No  longer 
(like  the  fashion)  not  unlike  to  continue": — 

"  Money-tongued  Shakespeare,  when  I  saw  thine  issue, 
I  swore  Apollo  got  them  and  none  other. 
Their  rosy-tainted  features  clothed  in  tissue, 
Some  heaven-born  goddess  said  to  be  their  mother : 
Rose-cheek'd  Adonis  with  his  amber  tresses. 
Fair  fire-hot  Venus  charming  him  to  love  her, 
Chaste  Lucretia  virgin  like  her  dresses. 
Proud  lust-stung  Tarquin  seeking  still  to  prove  her : 

17 


1596  ANNALS  OF  THE 

Romeo,  Richard:  more  whose  names  I  knozv  not, 
Their  sugred  tongues,  and  power-attractive  beauty. 
Say  they  are  saints,  akhough  that  saints  they  shew  not, 
For  thousands  vow  to  them  subjective  duty  : 
They  burn  in  love :  thy  children,  Shakespeare,  het^  them : 
Go,  woo  thy  muse :  more  nymphish  brood  beget  them." 

Weever,  like  the  author  of  the  previous  work,  was  "  a 
Cambridge  man  " — "  one  weaver  fellow  ...  els 
could  he  never  have  had  such  a  quick  sight  into  my  vir- 
tues." 

Another  reference  belonging  to  1595  is  in  Thomas  Ed- 
wards' L'Enroy  to  "  Ccphalus  and  Procris  "  : — 

"  Adon  deftly  masking  thro' 
Stately  troops  rich  conceited, 
Shew'd  he  well  deserved  too 

Love's  delight  on  him  to  gaze : 
And  had  not  Love  herself  entreated. 

Other  nymphs  had  sent  him  bays." 

About  this  time  Richard  Carew  wrote :  ''  Will  you  read 
Virgin  Take  the  Earl  of  Surrey.  Catullus}  Shake- 
speare, and  Marlow's  fragment." 

"  The  True  Tragedie  of  Richard,  Duke  of  York,  and 
the  death  of  good  King  Henry  the  Sixth,  as  it  ivas  suii- 
dry  times  acted  by  the  Earl  of  Pembroke  his  servants  " 
{cp.  3  Henry  VI.)  issued  from  the  press  during  the  year. 

On  Dec.  i,  ''  Edzuard  HI./'  the  pseudo-Shakespeare 
play  (with  its  "  lilies  that  fester  smell  far  -d'orsc  tJian 
weeds''  cp.  Sonnets,  xciv)  was  licensed  and  was  published 
the  following  year. 

1596.  August  II.  Hamnet,  the  poet's  only  son, 
was  buried  in  the  parish  church  of  Stratford.  We  may 
assume,  but  there  is  no  evidence,  that  Shakespeare  was 
present. 

In  this  year,  John  Shakespeare — probably  in  accord- 
ance with  the  washes  of  his  son — made  application  to  the 

^  i.e.  heated. 

18 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE  1596 

College  of  Heralds  for  a  coat-of-arms,  stating  that  he 
had  already,  in  1568,  applied  to  the  College,  and  obtained 
a  pattern.  Two  copies  of  the  draft  of  the  grant  proposed 
to  be  conferred  on  John  Shakespeare,  in  reply  to  his  ap- 
plication, in  the  year  1596,  are  preserved  at  the  College 
of  Arms.  In  the  margin  are  the  arms  and  crest,  with  the 
motto  "  Non  san:^  droicf."  After  a  preamble  it  is  stated 
that  being  by  "  credible  report  informed  that  John 
Shakespeare,  of  Stratford-upon-Avon  in  the  county  of 
Warwick,  whose  parents  and  late  antecessors  were  for 
their  valiant  and  faithful  service  advanced  and  rewarded 
by  the  most  prudent  prince  King  Henry  the  Seventh  of  fa- 
mous memorie,  sithence  which  time  they  have  continued 
at  those  parts  in  good  reputation  and  credit;  and  that 
the  said  John  having  married  Mary,  daughter  and  one  of 
the  heirs  of  Robert  Arden  of  Wilmcote,  in  the  said  coun- 
ty, gent.^  In  consideration  whereof,  and  for  the  encour- 
agement of  his  posterity  to  wdiom  these  achievements 
might  descend  by  the  ancient  custom  and  laws  of  arms,  I 
have  therefore  assigned,  granted,  and  by  these  presents 
confirmed  this  shield  or  coat  of  arms,  z'h.,  gold,  on  a 
bend  sable,  a  spear  of  the  first,  the  point  steeled,  proper, 
and  for  his  crest  or  cognisance  a  falcon,  his  wings  dis- 
played argent,  standing  on  a  wreath  of  his  colours,  sup- 
porting a  spear  gold  steeled  as  aforesaid,  set  upon  a  hel- 
met with  mantles  and  tassles  as  hath  been  accustomed  and 
more  plainly  appeareth  depicted  on  this  margent." 

The  draft  was  not  executed  this  year. 

At  the  end  of  the  year  James  Burbage  purchased  from 
Sir  William  More  a  large  portion  of  a  house  in  the  Black- 
friars,  formerly  belonging  to  Sir  Thomas  Cawarden, 
Master  of  the  Revels,  and  afterwards  converted  it  into  a 
theatre :  it  was  subsequently  leased  by  his  sons,  Richard 
and  Cuthbert,  to  Henrv  Evans  for  the  performances  of 
the  "  Children  of  the  Chapel  "  (cp.  1610). 

At  this  time  Shakespeare  was  probably  lodging  near 

*"  grandfather,"  in  second  draft.     "  "  esquire  "  in  second  draft. 

19 


1598  ANNALS  OF  THE 

"  The  Bear-Garden  in  Southwark,"  and  possibly  soon 
after  in  the  parish  of  St.  Helen's,  Bishopsgate.  The 
name  is  found  in  a  list  of  residents  there  in  1598,  but  there 
is  no  definite  evidence  of  identity. 

1597.  Henry  Brooke  succeeded  to  the  title  as 
eighth  Lord  Cobham ;  the  family  claimed  descent  from 
Sir  John  Oldcastle,  the  Lollard  chief.  Probably  owing- 
to  Lord  Cobham's  objections,  the  character  ''  Oldcastle  " 
was  at  this  time  changed  to  ''  Falstafif." 

On  May  4,  Shakespeare  purchased  (for  sixty  pounds) 
New  Place,  a  mansion  with  about  an  acre  of  land  in  the 
centre  of  Stratford-on-Avon  (the  final  legal  transfer  be- 
ing made  five  years  later)  ;  many  years  passed  before  he 
himself  settled  there ;  meanwhile  he  let  the  house  or  part 
of  it,  and  generally  improved  the  property. 

In  this  year  another  effort  was  made  to  get  back  the 
moT-tgaged  estate  of  Ashbies,  but  without  success. 

The  first  Quarto  imperfect  copy  of  "  Romeo  and  Juliet  " 
was  surreptitiously  published  {cp.  Preface). 

"  Richard  11.''  and  "  Richard  III.''  were  published 
anonymously ;  the  Deposition  Scene  was  omitted  from  the 
previous  play  (cp.  Preface),  and  so,  too,  in  the  next  edi- 
tion, published  in  the  following  year.  The  3rd  and  4th 
editions,  1608  and  1615,  supply  the  omissions.  ''Richard 
III."  was  re-published  in  1598,  1602,  1605,  1612. 

1598.  This  year  was  published  Francis  Meres' 
"  Palladis  Tamia:  Wit's  Treasury,  being  the  second  part 
of  Wit's  Conimowivealth''  containing  the  most  important 
reference  to  Shakespeare's  achievements  up  to  that 
date : — 

"As  the  soul  of  Euphorbus  was  thought  to  five  in 
Pythagoras,  so  the  sweet  witty  soul  of  Ovid  lives  in  mel- 
lifluous and  honey-tongued  Shakespeare,  witness  his 
Venus  and  Adonis,  his  Lucrece,  his  sugred  sonnets  among 
his  private  friends,  &c. 

As  Plautus  and  Seneca  are  accounted  the  best  for  Com- 

20 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE  1598 

edy  and  Tragedy  among  the  Latins,  so  Shakespeare 
among  the  EngHsh  is  the  most  excellent  in  both  kinds 
for  the  stage;  for  Comedy,  witness  his  Gentlemen  of 
Verona,  his  Errors,  his  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  his  Love's 
Labour's  Won,  his  Midsummer-Night's  Dream,  and  his 
Merchant  of  Venice;  for  Tragedy,  his  Richard  the  IL, 
Richard  the  IIL,  Henry  the  IV.,  King  John,  Titus  An- 
dronicus,  and  his  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

As  Epius  Stolo  said,  that  the  Muses  would  speak  with 
Plautus'  tongue,  if  they  would  speak  Latin ;  so  I  say  that 
the  Muses  would  speak  with  Shakespeare's  fine-filed 
phrase,  if  they  would  speak  English. 

As  Ovid  saith  of  his  work : — 

Jamqiic  opus  exegi  quod  nee  Jovis  ira,  nee  ignis, 
Nee  poterit  fcrriim,  nee  edax  abolore  vetustas. 

And  as  Horace  saith  of  his: — Exegi  inonumentum  (£re 
perennius;  Regalique,  situ  pyramidum  altius;  Quod  non 
imber  edax,  non  aquilo  impotcns  possit  diruere ;  ant  in- 
nunierabilcs  annorum  series,  &c.,  so  say  I  severally  of 
Sir  Philip  Sidney's,  Spenser's,  Daniel's,  Drayton's,  Shake- 
speare's and  Warner's  works." 

[It  is  significant  that  Meres  omits  Henry  VL  from  his 
list  of  plays,  but  includes  Titus  Andronicus.] 

The  following  is  the  approximate  chronological  order 
of  plays  mentioned  by  Meres  (cp.  Prefaces  to  individual 
plays)  : — Love's  Labour's  Lost  [c.  1591),  The  Two  Gen- 
tlemen of  Verona  (c.  1591),  Comedy  of  Errors  (1592), 
Romeo  and  Juliet  (1592-6,  subsequently  revised),  Richard 
J  I,  (1593),  Richard  HL  (1593),  Titus  Andronicus 
(1594),'  Merchant  of  Venice  (1594,  subsequently  re- 
vised), I'Cing  John  (1594),  Midsummer-Night's  Dream 
(c.    1593-5,   perhaps   subsequently   revised),   the   earlier 

^  The  close  connexion  between  the  date  of  Titus  and  Peele's 
Honour  of  the  Garter,  to  which  Mr.  Charles  Crawford  has  re- 
cently called  attention,  inclines  me  to  place  the  play  after  June, 
1593.  I  do  not  accept  Mr.  Crawford's  general  conclusions  {cp. 
Jahrbuch  der  d.  Shak.  Gesell.  xxxvi.). 

21 


1598 


ANNALS  OF  THE 


draft  of  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well  (i.e.  Love's  Labour 
Won)  (before  1595),  Henry  IV.  (i597)- 

In  this  same  year  we  have  ^^A  Remembrance  of  some 
English  Po^/^,"  probably  by  Richard  Barnfield.  Spenser 
is  praised  for  his  Fairy  Queen,  Daniel  for  his  Rosamond 
and  that  ''  rare  work  "  The  White  Rose  and  the  Red, 
Drayton  for  his  well-written  "  Tragedies  and  szceet  epis- 
■tles''  :— 

"  AndShakcspcarc  thou,  whose  honey-flowing  vein 
(Pleasing  the  world)  thy  praises  doth  obtain: 
Whose  Venus  and  whose  Lucrece,  sweet  and  chaste, 
Thy  name  in  Fame's  immortal  Book  hath  placed. 

Live  ever  you,  at  least  in  Fame  live  ever. 

Well  may  the  body  die,  but  Fame  dies  never." 

According  to  a  tradition  preserved  by  Rowe  "  Queen 
Elizabeth  was  so  well  pleased  with  the  admirable  char- 
acter of  Falstaf¥  in  the  two  parts  of  Henry  IV.  that  she 
commanded  Shakespeare  to  continue  it  for  one  play  more, 
and  to  show  him  in  love  "  ;  and  an- 
other tradition  (cp.  Dennis'  dedication 
to  The  Comical  Gallant,  1702)  states 
that  it  was  finished  in  fourteen  days. 
(Cp.  Epilogue,  2  Henry  IV.)  The 
play  of  The  Merry  Wives  may 
therefore  safely  be  dated  1597.  Jus- 
tice Shallow  with  his  "  dozen  white 
luces "  was  intended  to  suggest  Sir 
Thomas  Lucy  of  Charlecote. 

The    only    other    of    Shakespeare's 
^    ^  (^-  rr\        T        plays  already  written  bv  the  date  of 

Bust  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy.   K.^,-r>iij-^         •     '  u    t,i 

From  the  monument  in  Meres    Polladis   lamia  was  probably 
Charlecote  Church.        jj^^  Taming  of  the  Shrczv,  remarkable 

for  the  many  allusions  to  Stratford  and  the  neighbourhood 

in  the  Inductions  '  (cp.  Preface). 

^e.g.  "Old  Sly  of  Burton  Heath"  (=Barton-on-the-Heath)  ; 
Marian  Racket  of  Wincot ;  "  Old  John  Naps  of  Greece "  (  = 
Greet,  in  Gloucestershire)  ;   similarly  in  2  Henry  IV.  "  William 


22 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE 


1598 


The  following  allusion  to  Shakespeare  appeared  in  John 
]\Iarston's  ''Scourge  of  Villainie,"  published  this  year: — 

"  Luscus,  what's  played  to-day?     Faith,  now  I  know, 
I  set  thy  lips  abroad,  from  whence  doth  flow 
Nought  but  pure  Juliet  and  Romeo. 
Say,  who  acts  best?     Drusus  or  Roscio? 
Now  I  have  him,  that  ne'er  of  ought  did  speak 
But  when  of  plays  or  players  he  did  treat. 
'Hath  made  a  common-place  book  out  of  plays, 
And  speaks  in  print :  at  least  whate'er  he  says, 
Is  warranted  by  Curtain^  plaudeties. 
If  e'er  you  heard  him  courting  Lesbia's  eyes; 
Say,  courteous  sir,  speaks  he  not  movingly. 
From  out  some  new  pathetic  tragedy? 
He  writes,  he  rails,  he  jests,  he  courts  what  not. 
And  all  from  out  his  huge  long-scraped  stock 
Of  well-penned  plays." 

Soon  after  the  publication  of  ]\Iarston's  •"  5'ro//ro^^  of 
Villainie,"  the  author 
of  '•  The  Return  from 
Parnassus  "  (probably 
John  Day)^  was  at 
work  on  the  second  of 
his  three  plays,  which 
was  probably  acted  at 
St.  John's  Colleo^e, 
Cambridge,  at  Christ- 
mas, 1599.  The  fol- 
lowing extracts  sug- 
gest the  character  of 
Luscus : — 


Bas-relief  in  plaster,  tornierJy  in  Shakespeare's 
birth-place  It  represents  David  and  Goli- 
ath, and  formerly  bore  the  date  1606. 


Visor  of  Woncot  "  (  =  Woodmancote)  and  "  Clement  Perks  of 
the  Hill  "  (  =  Stinchcombe  Hill)  are  specific  references  to  persons 
and  places  in  Gloucestershire ;  so,  too,  "  Will  Squele,  a  CoLswold 
man." 

'  Perhaps  a  quibbling  allusion  to  the  "  Curtain  "  theatre. 

^v.  "Return  from  Parnassus,"  edited  by  the  present  writer. 


1598  ANNALS  OF  THE 

"  Giillio.  Pardon,  fair  lady,  though  sick-thoughted  GulHo  makes 
amain  unto  thee,  and  Hke  a  bold-faced  suitor  'gins  to  woo 
thee.^ 

Ingenioso.  (We  shall  have  nothing  but  pure  Shakespeare  and 
shreds  of  poetry  that  he  hath  gathered  at  the  theatres.) 

Giillio.  Pardon  me,  moi  mistressa,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  the 
moon,  in  comparison  of  thy  bright  hue  's  a  mere  slut,  An- 
thonio's  Cleopatra  a  black-brow'd  milkmaid,  Helen  a  dowdy. 

Ingenioso.     (Mark,  Romeo  and  Juliet!'     O  monstrous  theft! 

I    think    he    will    run    through    a    whole    book    of    Samuel 
Daniels!)' 

Giillio.  Thrice  fairer  than  myself — thus  I  l)egan — "  * 
***** 
"  O  sweet  Mr.  Shakespeare !    I  "11  have  his  picture  in  my 
study  at  the  court." 

***** 
"  Let  the  duncified  age  esteem  of  Spenser  and  Chaucer, 
I  '11  worship  sweet  Mr.  Shakespeare,  and  to  honour  him 
will  lay  his  Venus  and  Adonis  under  my  pillow,  as  we 
read  of  one  (I  do  not  well  remember  his  name,  but  I  am 
sure  he  was  a  king)  slept  with  Homer  under  his  bed's 
head." 

The  revised  Love's  Labour's  Lost  was  published  this 
year,  with  Shakespeare's  name  for  the  first  time  on  the 
title-page  of  a  play     - 

^  cp.  "  Sick-thoughted  Venus  makes  amain  unto  him, 

And  like  a  bold-faced  suitor  'gins  to  woo  him." 

Venus  and  Adonis,  si.  i. 

'  cp.  Romeo  and  Juliet,  II.  ir. 

^Evidently  Daniel's  debt  to  Shakespeare  was  recognised  {cp. 
Preface.     Richard  II.)  *cp.  Venus  and  Adonis,  st.  ii. 


24 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE 


1598 


PLEASANT 

Conceited  Comedie 

CALLED, 

Loues  labors  loft* 

Asitwasprcfentcd  before  her Highnes 
this  lafl  Chriibna^. 

Newly  corrc£lcd  and  augmented 
BjW.ShakeJ^. 


Imprinted  at  London  by  Tf^« 


1598  ANNALS  OF  THE 

Robert  Tofte's  ''  The  Month's  Mind  of  a  Melancholy 
Lover  "  appeared  this  year,  with  important  allusions  to 
this  play : — 

"  Love's  Labour  Lost.  I  once  did  see  a  play 
Y-cleped  so,  so  called  to  my  pain,"  etc. 

{cp.  Preface  to  Love's  Labour's  Lost). 

The  First  Part  of  Henry  IV.  was  issued  this  year  (and 
a  revised  edition,  "  newly  corrected,"  the  following  year, 
and  again  in  1604,  1608,  1615). 

Shakespeare  acted  in  Ben  Jonson's  Every  Man  in  His 
Humour,  produced  in  September  by  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain's Company.  According  to  a  tradition  recorded  by 
Rowe,  Shakespeare  was  answerable  for  the  acceptance  of 
the  piece.  His  name  is  placed  first  in  the  list  of  original 
performers  of  the  play. 

Some  interesting  correspondence  directly  mentioning 
Shakespeare  belongs  to  this  year: — (i.)  from  Abraham 
Sturley,  formerly  bailiff,  to  his  brother  or  brother-in-law 
in  London,  containing  these  words — ''  This  is  one  special 
remenibrance  from  our  father's  motion.  It  seemeth  by 
him  that  our  countryman,  Mr.  Shakespeare,  is  willing  to 
disburse  some  money  upon  some  odd  yardland  or  other 
at  Shottery,  or  near  about  us :  he  thinketh  it  a  very  fit 
pattern  to  move  him  to  deal  in  the  matter  of  our  tithes. 
By  the  instruction  you  can  give  him  thereof,  and  by  the 
friends  he  can  make  therefore,  we  think  it  a  fair  mark 
for  him  to  shoot  at,  and  would  do  us  much  good  " ;  (ii.) 
from  the  same  writer  to  Richard  Ouiney  (father  of 
Thomas  Quiney,  afterwards  Shakespeare's  son-in-law), 
at  the  time  (November  4)  staying  in  London,  negotiating 
local  affairs,  probably  seeking  to  obtain  relief  for  Strat- 
ford from  some  tax.  Sturley  writes  that  Quiney's  letter 
of  October  25  had  stated  "  that  our  countryman  Mr.  Wm. 
Shak.  would  procure  us  money,"  "  which  I  like,"  he  con- 
tinues, "  as  I  shall  hear  when,  and  where,  and  how ;  and 
I  pray  let  not  go  that  occasion  if  it  may  sort  to  any  indif- 
ferent conditions  ";  (iii.)  on  the  very  day  when  Quiney 
had  written  the  letter  which  called  forth  this  reply  from 

26 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE 


1598 


Sturley,  he  had  also  addressed  a  communication  "  to  my 
loving  good  friend  and  countryman  Mr.  Wm.  Shake- 
speare " — the  only  letter  addressed  to  Shakespeare  which 
is  known  to  exist: — 


mVmh 
mmwc: 


1 


i 


i 


<!) 


1599  ANNALS  OF  THE 

"  Lovelnge  countryman,  I  am  bolde  of  yow  as  of  a  ffrende, 
craveinge  yowr  helpe  with  xxxi.  Uppon  Mr.  Bushells  and  my 
securytee,  or  Mr.  Myttons  with  me,  Mr.  Rosswell  is  nott  come 
to  London  as  yeate,  and  I  have  especiall  cawse.  Yow  shall 
fifrende  me  muche  in  helpeing  me  out  of  all  debettes  I  owe  in  Lon- 
don, I  thancke  God,  and  much  quiet  my  mynde,  which  wolde  not 
be  indebted.  I  am  nowe  towardes  the  Cowrte,  in  hope  of  answer 
for  the  dispatche  of  my  buysenes.  Yow  shall  nether  loase  cred- 
dytt  nor  monney  by  me,  the  Lorde  wyllinge ;  and  nowe  butt  per- 
swade  yowrselfe  soe,  as  I  hope,  and  yow  shall  nott  need  to  feare, 
butt,  with  all  heartie  thanckfullenes,  I  wyll  holde  my  tyme,  and 
content  yowr  ffrende,  and  yf  we  bargaine  farther,  yow  shal  be  the 
paie-master  yowrselfe.  My  tyme  biddes  me  hestene  to  an  ende, 
and  soe  I  commit  thys  [to]  yowr  care  and  hope  of  yowr  helpe,  I 
feare  I  shall  nott  be  backe  thys  night  ffrom  the  Cowrte.  Haste. 
The  Lorde  be  with  yow  and  with  vs  all,  Amen !  Ffrom  the  Bell 
in  Carter  Lane  the  25  October  1598. 

"  Yowrs  in  all  kyndeness. 

"  RiC.    QUYNEY."  * 

1599.  In  the  early  part  of  this  year  Shakespeare 
was  at  work  on  Henry  V.  In  the  Prologue  of  Act  \^ 
(lines  30-35)  he  alluded  directly  to  Essex,  "the  general 
of  our  gracious  empress,"  who  left  London  on  March  27 
of  this  year  for  Irelaitd  to  suppress  Tyrone's  rebellion : — 

"  Were  now  the  general  of  our  gracious  empress. 
As  in  good  time  he  may.  from  Ireland  coming, 
Bringing  rebellion  broached  on  his  sword, 
How  many  would  the  peaceful  city  quit 
To  welcome  him  !  " 

Essex  returned  on  September  28,  and  was  put  on  his 
trial  for  neglect  of  duty,  and  imprisoned.  At  the  time 
when  Shakespeare  wrote  the  Prologue  in  question  it  was 

^  The  new  Post  Office  Savings  Bank  has  been  built  on  the  site 
of  the  Bell  Inn  in  Carter  Lane.  A  tablet  has  been  placed  on  the 
building  commemorating  Quiney's  stay  there  when  he  wrote  this 
letter — "  the  only  letter  extant  addressed  to  Shakespeare,  and  the 
original  is  preserved  in  the  Museum  at  his  birthplace,  Stratford- 
upon-Avon.  This  tablet  was  placed  upon  the  present  building 
by  leave  of  the  Postmaster-General,  1899." 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE  1599 

not  yet  foreseen  that  the  expedition  would  fail.  The 
Earl  of  Southampton,  Shakespeare's  friend,  accompanied 
Essex. 

Richard  Burbage  and  his  brother  Cuthbert  built  up, 
from  the  ruins  of  the  old  "  Theatre,"  the  "  Globe  The- 
atre "  on  the  Bankside,  to  which  Shakespeare  probably 
referred  in  the  opening  chorus  of  Henry  V.  (this  wooden 
O).  Between  1595  and  1599  we  have  notices  of  Shake- 
speare's Company  acting  at  "  the  Curtain  "  and  "  the  The- 
atre." 

Shares  in  the  receipts  of  the  Globe  were  leased  out,  for 
twenty-one  years,  to  "  those  deserving  men,  Shakespeare, 
Hemings,  Condell,  Philips,  and  others." 

Another  application  was  made  this  year  to  the  College 
of  Heralds — this  time  for  a  "  recognition  "  of  the  arms 
formerly  assigned,  and  for  permission  to  impale  and 
quarter  the  coat  of  the  Ardens  of  Wilmcote.  The  object 
of  the  petition  was  evidently  to  Imk  the  Ardens  of  Wilm- 
cote with  the  great  Arden  family  of  Warwickshire.  This 
was  refused,  and  the  arms  of  another  Arden  family — of 
Cheshire — were  suggested.  Shakespeare  and  his  family 
ultimately  assumed  the  Shakespeare  arms  without  adding 
the  Arden  coat. 

The  second  quarto — the  true  version — of  "  Romeo  and 
Juliet,"  "  newly  corrected,  augmented  and  amended  "  was 
issued  this  year  (re-issued  in  two  editions  in  1609). 

William  Jaggard  published  the  piratical  "  Passionate 
Pilgrim"  "by  W.  Shakespeare"  (cp.  Preface).  "I 
know "  wrote  Heywood  in  his  "  Apology  for  Actors " 
(1612)  ''he  was  much  offended  with  M.  Jaggard  that 
(altogether  unknown  to  him)  presumed  to  make  so  bold 
with  his  name."  (In  this  year,  1612,  a  'third  edition' 
appeared,  with  Shakespeare's  name  omitted  from  the  title- 
page  of  some  copies.) 

1599.  A  play  on  the  subject  of  "  Troilus  and  Cres- 
sida  "  was  taken  in  hand  by  Dekker  and  Chettle  for  the 
Earl  of  Nottingham's  company. 

29 


1600  ANNALS  OF  THE 

In  November  of  this  year  English  actors  visited  Scot- 
land, and  were  received  by  the  King.  Their  chiefs  were 
Laurence  Fletcher  and  Martin  (the  former  belonged  to 
Shakespeare's  company  in  1603).  The  visit  was  repeated 
in  1601.  There  is  no  evidence  that  Shakespeare  was  one 
of  these  travellers  to  Scotland. 

1600.  In  March  of  this  year  Shakespeare  recov- 
ered in  London  the  sum  of  iy  from  one  John  Clayton. 

On  August  4,  a  memorandum  was  made  in  the  Sta- 
tioners' Register  to  the  effect  that  "  As  You  Like  It, 
Henry  V.,  Every  Man  in  His  Humour,  and  Much  Ado 
About  Nothing "  were  ''  to  be  stayed."  On  the  14th 
Every  Man  in  His  Humour  was  duly  licensed ;  and  on 
the  23rd,  Much  Ado  About  Nothing  and  2  Henry  IV., 
"  with  the  humours  of  Sir  John  Falstaff,  uritten  by 
Master  Shakespeare."  Henry  V.  was  printed,  imper- 
fectly, without  license  by  Thomas  Creede.  As  You  Like 
It  was  not  issued  from  the  press  during  the  poet's  life- 
time; it  was  probably  written  during  the  previous  year; 
to  the  same  year  Much  Ado  may  safely  be  assigned.  In 
the  quarto  edition,  William  Kemp's  name  is  prefixed  to 
some  of  Dogberry's  speeches,  and  Cowley  to  some  of 
Verges'  {cp.  IV.  ii.).  In  this  year  or  1599  "the  new 
map  of  the  world  with  the  Augmentation  of  the  Indies  " 
was  first  issued  with  Hakluyt's  Voyages ;  Shakespeare 
was  evidently  at  work  on  Tzvelfth  Night  about  this  time, 
and  referred  to  the  map  (III.  ii.  83).  According  to  the 
entry  in  the  Diary  of  a  barrister,  Manningham,  thia  piece 
was  produced  at  Middle  Temple  Hall,  Feb.  2,  1601-2  {cp. 
Preface). 

The  same  Diary  about  this  time  recorded  the  following 
contemporary  story : — ''  Upon  a  time  when  Burbage 
played  Richard  III.,  there  was  a  citizen  gone  so  far  in 
liking  with  him,  that  before  she  went  from  the  play  she 
appointed  him  to  come  that  night  unto  her  by  the  name 
of  Richard  III.  Shakespeare,  overhearing  their  conclu- 
sion, went  before,  was  entertained,  and  at  his  game  ere 

30 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE  1601 

Burbage  came.  The  message  being  brought  that  Richard 
III.  was  at  the  door,  Shakespeare  caused  return  to  be 
made  that  WiUiam  the  Conqueror  was  before  Richard 
III." 

"  The  Merchant  of  Venice^'  and  ''  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream  "  were  pubhshed  for  the  first  time  this  year,  two 
editions  in  each  case,  the  former  being  printed  from  two 
independent  copies.  To  this  year  belongs,  too,  the  only 
quarto  edition  of  "  Titns:' 

'*  The  Second  part  of  Henry  IJ\"  was  printed  this  year, 
witli  the  reference  in  the  Epilogue  to  the  change  of*  char- 
acter from  "  Oldcastle  "  to  "  Falstaif  " — "  Oldcastle  died 
a  martyr,  and  this  is  not  the  man.''  About  the  same  time 
a  poor  play  on  the  subject  of  "  Sir  John  Oldcastle  "  was 
published  in  two  editions,  one  having  Shakespeare's  name 
on  the  title-page. 

John  \\'eever,  in  "  The  Mirror  of  Martyrs,  or  the  life 
and  death  of  Sir  John  Oldcastle,  Knight,  Lord  Cohman," 
referred  to  "  Julius  Cccsar,''  evidently  Shakespeare's 
play  :— 

"  The  many-headed  multitude  were  drawn 
By  Brutus'  speech,  that  Caesar  was  ambitious, 
When  eloquent  Mark  Antony  had  shown 
His  virtues,  who  but  Brutus  then  was  vicious? 
Man's  memory,  with  new,  forgets  the  old, 
One  tale  is  good,  until  another's  told." 

1601.  On  February  5  a  play  on  "Richard  II." 
(probably  Shakespeare's)  was  acted  at  the  Globe  The- 
atre (cp.  Preface  to  Richard  IJ.). 

February  8  was  the  day  fixed  by  Essex  for  stirring  up 
a  rebellion  in  London. 

On  February  17  Sir  Gilly  Meyricke  was  examined  in 
connexion  with  the  Essex  Rebellion : — "  He  sayeth  that 
upon  Saturday  last  was  sennight  he  dined  at  Gunter's 
in  the  company  of  the  Lord  Alonteagle,  Sir  Christopher 
Blunt,  Sir  Charles  Percy,  Ellis  Jones,  and  Edward  Bush- 
ell,  and  who  else  he  remembereth  not  and  after  dinner 

31 


1601  ANNALS  OF  THE 

that  day  and  at  the  motion  of  Sir  Charles  Percy  and  the 
rest  they  all  went  together  to  the  Globe  over  the  water 
where  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  men  use  to  play,  and  were 
there  somewhat  before  the  play  began.  Sir  Charles  telling 
them  that  the  play  would  be  of  Harry  the  IVth.  Whether 
Sir  John  Daviss  were  there  or  not  this  examinate  cannot 
tell,  but  he  said  he  would  be  there  if  he  could.  He  can- 
not tell  who  procured  that  play  to  be  played  at  that  time 
except  it  were  Sir  Charles  Percy,  but  as  he  thinketh  it 
was  Sir  Charles  Percy.  Then  he  was  at  the  same  play 
and  came  in  somewhat  after  it  was  begun,  and  the  play 
was  of  King  Harry  the  IVth,  and  of  the  killing  of  King 
Richard  the  second  played  by  the  L.  Chamberlain's  play- 
ers." 

Next  day,  February  i8th,  Augustine  Phillipps,  servant 
unto  the  Lord  Chamberlain  and  one  of  his  players,  was 
examined : — ''  He  sayeth  that  on  Friday  last  was  sen- 
night, on  Thursday  Sir  Charles  Percy,  Sir  Joselyn  Percy 
and  the  Lord  Monteagle  with  some  three  more  spake  to 
some  of  the  players  in  the  presence  of  this  examinate  to 
have  the  play  of  the  Deposing  and  Killing  of  King  Rich- 
ard the  second  to  be  played  the  Saturday  next  promising 
to  get  them  XI.  shillings  more  than  their  ordinary  to 
play  it.  Where  this  examinate  and  his  fellows  were  de- 
termined to  have  played  some  other  play,  holding  that 
play  of  King  Richard  to  be  so  old  and  so  long  out  of  use 
as  that  they  should  have  small  or  no  company  at  it.  But 
at  their  request  this  examinate  and  his  fellows  were  con- 
tent to  play  it  the  Saturday  and  had  their  XI.  shillings 
more  than  their  ordinarv  for  it  and  so  plaved  it  accord- 
ingly." 

On  February  19th,  Essex,  with  Southampton,  were 
brought  to  trial  on  a  capital  charge  of  treason.  Both 
were  convicted  and  condemned  to  death.  Essex  was  exe- 
cuted on  the  25th ;  Southampton's  sentence  was  com- 
muted to  imprisonment  for  life  (he  was  set  free  in  1603 
by  King  James  on  his  accession,  cp.  Preface  to  Sonnets). 

32 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE  1601 

In  April  there  died  one  Thomas  Whittington  of  Shot- 
tery,  who  was  evidently  identical  with  "  my  shepherd," 
mentioned  by  Richard  Hathaway  in  158 1.  In  a  will 
drawn  up  in  May,  Whittington  bequeathed  "  unto  the 
poor  people  of  Stratford  XLs.  that  is  in  the  hand  of  Anne 
Shaxspere,  wife  unto  Mr.  Wyllyam  Shaxspere,  and  is, due 
debt  unto  me,  being  paid  to  mine  executor  by  the  said 
Wyllyam  Shaxspere  or  his  assignees  according  to  the 
true  meaning  of  this  my  will." 

John  Shakespeare,  the  poet's  father,  died,  and  was 
buried  on  September  8.  The  Henley  Street  property 
passed  to  his  eldest  son. 

Robert  Chester's  Love's  Martyr,  containing  the  Turtle 
and  Phoenix  {cp.  Preface)  was  first  published  in  this  year. 

In  "  The  Return  from  Parnassus  " — the  third  play  of 
the  Parnassus  trilogy — acted  by  the  students  of  St. 
John's  College,  Cambridge,  probably  at  their  Christmas 
festivities  this  or  next  year,  Burbage  and  Kemp  were  in- 
troduced, the  former  referring  to  his  role  of  Richard 
III.:— 

"  Kempe.  Few  of  the  university  pen  plays  well,  they 
smell  too  much  of  that  writer  Oz'id,  and  that  waiter 
Metamorphosis,  and  talk  too  much  of  Proserpina  and 
Jnppiter.  Why  here 's  our  fellow  Shakespeare  puts 
them  all  down,  aye,  and  Ben  Jonson  too.  O  that  Ben 
Jonson  is  a  pestilent  fellow,  he  brought  up  Horace  giving 
the  poets  a  pill,  but  our  fellow  Shakespeare  hath  given 
him  a  purge  that  made  him  bewray  his  credit. 

Burbage.  He's  a  shrewd  fellow,  indeed:  I  wonder 
these  scholars  stay  so  long,  they  appointed  to  be  here 
presently  that  we  might  try  them  :  oh,  here  they  come. 

^  >t;  >)«  He       .  :(;  ^ 

I  like  your  face,  and  the  proportion  of  your  body  for 
King  Richard  II L  I  pray,  Mr.  Philomusus,  let  me  see 
you  act  a  little  of  it. 

Philomusus.  '  Now  is  the  winter  of  our  discontent,' 
&c." 

33 


1603  ANNALS  OF  THE 

In  the  same  play  a  character  Judicio  passed  this  judge- 
ment on  **  William  Shakespeare  "  : 

"Who  loves  not  Adon's  love,  or  Lucrece  rape? 
His  sweeter  verse  contains  heart-throbbing  line, 
Could  but  a  graver  subject  him  content, 
^         Without  love's  foolish,  lazy  languishment."  ^ 

The  allusion  in  The  Return  from  Parnassus  to  Ben 
Jonson's  "  purge  "  cannot  be  satisfactorily  explained  ;  it 
can  only  be  understood  in  its  connexion  with  the  Stage- 
Quarrel  between  Ben  Jonson  and  the  so-called  Poetasters 
(cp.  Preface  to  Troilus  and  Cressida).  About  this  time, 
too,  the  boy-actors  became  exceedingly  popular  (cp. 
Hamlet  ii.  2).  They  performed  Cynthia's  Revels,  1600, 
and  The  Poetaster,  1601. 

1602.  On  May  i  Shakespeare  purchased  from 
William  and  John  Combe  one  hundred  and  seven  acres  of 
arable  land,  which  he  added  to  New  Place,  also,  on  Sep- 
tember 28,  a  cottage  and  garden  in  Chapel  Lane  held  from 
the  manor  of  Rowington.  Shakespeare  was  not  in  Strat- 
ford at  the  former  date :  the  conveyance  was  made  to  his 
brother  Gilbert. 

An  imperfect  version  of  The  Merry  Wives  was  pub- 
lished this  year  by  Thomas  Creede. 

Under  the  date  July  26,  1602,  was  entered  in  the  Sta- 
tioners' Registers,  ''  The  Revenge  of  Hamlet  Prince  of 
Denmarke,  as  yt  zcas  latelie  acted  by  the  Lord  Chamber- 
leyne  his  serz'auntes." 

1603.  On    Feb.    2    Shakespeare's   company   per- 
formed before  the  Queen  at  Richmond. 

On  February  7  a  license  obtained  by  James  Roberts  for 
"  the  booke  of  Troilus  and  Cressida  as  yt  is  acted  by  my 
Lord  Chamberlens  men  "    (probably  Shakespeare's  play, 

^  Other  editions,  "Who  loves  Adonis'  love,  or  Lucrece  rape," 
"  heart-robbing  life,"  and  omit  "  lazy." 

34 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE  1603 

perhaps  before  revision ;   but  the  book  was  not  published 
this  year). 

March  26th.  Death  of  Queen  Ehzabeth.  Henry  Chettle 
in  England's  Mourning  Garment  (pubhshed  after  the 
burial,  28th  of  April)  taxed  the  poets  for  not  penning 
elegies : — 

"  Nor  doth  the  silver-tongued  Melicert 
Drop  from  his  honied  muse  one  sable  tear, 
To  mourn  her  death  that  graced  his  desert, 
And  to  his  lays  opened  her  royal  ear. 
Shepherd,  remember  our  Elisabeth, 
And  sing  her  rape,  done  by  that  Tavqiiin,  death." 

On  May  7  King  James  arrived  in  London  ;  on  May  19th 
a  license  was  granted  to  Shakespeare,  Burbage  and  other 
members  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  Company  to  perform 
stage  plays  "  within  their  now  usual  house  called  the 
Globe  "  and  anywhere  else  in  the  kingdom.  They  were 
henceforth  to  be  ''  The  King's  Servants." 

London  was  visited  by  the  plague  this  year,  the  theatres 
were  closed,  and  "  the  King's  Players  "  went  on  tour, 
being  forbidden  ''  to  present  any  plays  publicly  in  or  near 
London  by  reason  of  great  peril  that  might  grow  through 
the  extraordinary  concourse  and  assembly  of  people  to  a 
new  increase  of  the  plague." 

On  December  2,  the  court  being  at  that  time  at  Wilton, 
the  seat  of  William  Herbert,  third  Earl  of  Pembroke,  the 
company  by  royal  command,  performed  there,  and  re- 
ceived ^30  ''  by  way  of  his  ^Majesty's  reward."  Subse- 
quently they  were  summoned  to  appear  at  Hampton  Court 
and  Whitehall.  Nine  plays  in  all  were  acted  at  the  Christ- 
mas and  New  Year  festivities. 

John  Davies  of  Hereford  in  *'  Microcosmos:  the  dis- 
covery of  the  Little  World,  zvith  the  government  thereof ^ 
1603,  addressed  the  players,  and  more  particularly  "  W. 
S.  R.  B."  (i.e.  William  Shakespeare  and  Richard  Bur- 
bage), in  the  following  eulogistic  lines: 

35 


1604  ANNALS  OF  THE 

"  Players,  I  love  ye  and  your  Quality, 
As  ye  are  men  that  pass  time  not  abused : 
And  ^  some  I  love  for  ^  painting,  poesie. 
And  say  fell  Fortune  cann«t  be  excused 
That  hath  for  better  uses  you  refus'd : 
Wit,  courage,  good  shape,  good  parts,  and  all  good. 
As  long  as  all  these  goods  are  no  v^orse  used. 
And  though  the  stage  doth  stain  pure  gentle  blood, 
Yet  ^  generous  ye  are  in  mind  and  mood." 

This  year  were  published  the  the  first  quarto  of  Hamlet, 
surreptitiously  printed  (cp.  Preface)  ;  Ben  Jonson's  Se- 
janus,  with  Shakespeare's  name  in  the  list  of  actors ;  and 
Florio's  translation  of  Montaigne's  Essays  (cp.  Preface 
to  Tempest). 

1604.  On  February  8th,  owing  to  the  continuance 
of  the  plague,  £30  was  given  to  Burbage  "  for  the  main- 
tenance and  relief  of  himself  and  company."  On  March 
15th  King  James  made  his  formal  entry  into  London: 
nine  actors  belonging  to  the  King's  company  walked  in 
the  procession,  each  being  presented  with  four  yards  and 
a  half  of  scarlet  cloth.  The  nine  actors  named  were 
*'  William  Shakespeare,  Augustine  Phillipps,  Laurence 
Fletcher,  John  Hemmings,  Richard  Burbage,  William 
Slye,  Robert  Armyn,  Henry  Condell,  Richard  Cowley." 
Dekker's  description  of  "  The  Magnificent  Entertain- 
ment^' with  the  speeches  and  songs  ran  through  three  or 
four  issues  during  the  year. 

On  April  9th  a  letter  was  sent  by  the  King  to  the 
Mayor  and  Justices  ordering  them  to  permit  playing  by 
the  King's  men  at  the  Globe,  and  the  Queen's  and  Prince's 

^ "  W.  S.  R.  B."  :  in  the  margin. 

^ "  Simonides  saith  that  painting  is  a  dumb  Poesy,  and  Poesy  a 
speaking  painting  "  :  in  the  margin. 

'"Roscius  v^as  said  for  his  excellency  in  his  quality,  to  be  only 
worthy  to  come  on  the  stage,  and  for  his  honesty  to  be  more 
worthy  than  to  come  thereon  "  :  in  the  margin. 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE  1604 

men  at  ''  their  usual  houses,"  viz.,  the  Fortune  and  the 
Curtain,  respectively. 

In  June  Shakespeare  must  have  been  at  Stratford :  on 
the  25th  of  the  month  he  lent  the  sum  of  two  shillings 
to  one  Philip  Rogers,  who  already  owed  him  £1.  19s.  lod. 
for  malt  supplied  between  March  27th  and  the  end  of 
May.  He  paid  six  shillings  off  the  debt.  In  July  Shake- 
speare sued  him  in  the  local  court  at  Stratford  for  the 
balance  of  £1.  15s.  lod. 

The  following  letter  from  Sir  Walter  Cope  to  "  The 
Right  Honourahle  the  Lord  J'iscount  Cranborne  at  the 
Court,''  belongs  to  this  year : — 

"  Sir, — I  have  sent  and  been  all  this  morning  hunting  for  play- 
ers, jugglers,  and  such  kind  of  creatures,  but  find  them  hard  to 
find,  wherefore  leaving  notes  for  them  to  seek  me.  Burbage  is 
come,  and  says  there  is  no  new  play  that  the  Queen  hath  not  seen, 
but  they  have  revived  an  old  one.  called  Love's  Labour  Lost, 
which  for  wit  and  mirth  he  says  will  please  her  exceedingly.  And 
this  is  appointed  to  be  played  to-morrow  night  at  my  lord  of 
Southampton's,  unless  you  send  a  writ  to  remove  the  Corpus  cum 
causa  to  your  house  in  Strand.  Burbage  is  my  messenger  ready 
attending  your  pleasure, — Yours  Most  Humbly,  Walter  Cope." 

In  August  every  member  of  the  company  was  sum- 
moned to  be  in  attendance  at  Somerset  House,  on  the 
occasion  of  the  visit  of  the  Spanish  Ambassador  to  Eng- 
land, but  there  is  no  evidence  that  their  professional  serv- 
ices were  required. 

The  King's  Company  acted  at  court  on  November  i 
and  4,  December  26  and  28.  It  is  almost  certain  that 
Othello  was  acted  on  November  i,  and  Measure  for 
Measure  on  December  26. 

Other  performances  by  the  company  were  given  on  the 
following  January  7  and  8,  February  2  and  3,  and  on 
Shrove  Sunday,  Shrove  Monday,  and  Shrove  Tuesday. 

In  January  of  this  year  *'  The  Children  of  the  Chapel  " 
became  "  The  Children  of  Her  Majesty's  Revels." 

In  this  year  the  second  Quarto  of  Hamlet  was  pub- 

Z7 


1607  ANNALS  OF  THE 

lished — "  Newly  imprinted  and  enlarged  to  almost  as 
much  again  as  it  was,  according  to  the  new  and  perfect 
copy." 

A  tragedy  of  Gozi'ry  twice  acted  by  the  King's  Players, 
"  with  exceeding  concourse  of  people  ''  gave  offence,  and 
is  noticed  towards  the  end  of  the  year : — "  Whether  the 
matter  or  manner  be  not  well  handled,  or  that  it  be 
thought  unfit  that  princes  should  be  played  on  the  stage 
in  their  lifetime,  I  hear  that  some  great  councillors  are 
much  displeased  with  it,  and  so  'tis  thought  it  shall  be 
forbidden  "  (Chamberlain  to  Winwood). 

On  December  26,  Measure  for  Measure  was  produced 
for  the  first  time  at  Whitehall. 

1605.  Augustine  PhilHpps  bequeathed  "to  my  fel- 
low,   William    Shakespeare,    a    thirty-shillings    piece    of 

On  March  3,  at  Oxford,  was  baptised  William  D'Ave- 
nant  (afterwards  Sir  W.  D'Avenant),  son  of  John 
D'Avenant,  landlord  of  the  Crozcii  Inn,  Shakespeare  act- 
ing as  godfather. 

According  to  Aubrey : — "  "Sir.  William  Shakespeare 
was  wont  to  go  into  Warwickshire  once  a  year,  and  did 
commonly  in  his  journey  lie  at  this  house  in  Oxon., 
where  he  was  exceedingly  respected." 

In  this  year  Shakespeare  bought  the  unexpired  lease  of 
a  moiety  of  the  Stratford  tithes. 

1606.  Macbeth  was  probably  completed  this  year 
{cp.  Preface). 

On  December  26  King  Lear  was  produced,  for  the 
first  time,  before  the  Court  at  Whitehall. 

1607.  Shakespeare's  daughter  Susanna  was  mar- 
ried on  June  5,  of  this  year,  to  John  Hall,  who  subse- 
quently became  '*  very  famous  "  as  a  physician  {cp.  ''  Se- 
lect Observations  on  English  bodies,  or  cures  both  em- 
perical  and  historical,  performed  upon  very  eminent  per- 
sons in  desperate  diseases,  first  written  in  Latin  by  Mr. 

38 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE  1608 

John  Hall,  physician,  living  at  Stratford-upon-Avon,  in 
Warwickshire,  where  he  was  very  famous,  as  also  in  the 
counties  adjacent,  as  appeares  by  these  Observations," 
etc.,  London,  1657). 

In  this  year  The  Puritan ;  or,  the  Widow  of  IVatliiig 
Street  was  published,  containing  a  direct  reference  to 
Banquo's  Ghost — "  Instead  of  a  jester  we  '11  have  a  ghost 
in  a  white  sheet  sit  at  the  upper  end  of  the  table." 

Shakespeare  was  probably  at  work  on  Antony  and 
Cleopatra. 

In  this  year  was  published  Mirrha,  the  Mother  of 
Adonis,  or  Liistes  Prodegies,  by  William  Barksted,  con- 
taining the  following  concluding  lines  : — 

"  But  stay,  my  Muse,  in  thine  own  confines  keep. 
And  wage  not  war  with  so  dear  lov'd  a  neighbour ; 
But  having  sung  thy  day-song,  rest  and  sleepe; 
Preserve  thy  small  fame  and  his  greater  favour. 
His  song  was  worthy  merit ; — Shakespeare,  he 
Sung  the  fair  blossom,  thou,  the  withered  tree ; 
Laurel  was  due  to  him ;  his  art  and  wit 
Hath  purchased  it ;  cypress  thy  brow  will  fit." 

On  November  26  King  Lear  was  entered  on  the  "  Sta- 
tioners' Registers." 

1608.  Two  quartos  of  King  Lear  issued  from  the 
press  {cp.  Preface). 

On  February  21  Elizabeth  Hall,  Shakespeare's  only 
grand-daughter,  was  baptised  in  the  church  of  the  Holy 
Trinity,  Stratford-upon-Avon. 

On  September  9,  Shakespeare's  mother  was  buried. 

On  October  16,  of  this  year,  Shakespeare  stood  god- 
father to  William,  son  of  Henry  Walker,  mercer  and 
alderman,  Stratford-on-Avon. 

Timon  of  Athens  was  probably  being  prepared  for  the 
stage  during  this  year. 

On  May  20  Edward  Blount  entered  in  the  **  Stationers' 
Registers "  "  a  booke  called  Anthony  and  Cleopatra " 
(but  no  quarto  edition  was  issued). 

39 


1610  ANNALS  OF  THE 

George  Wilkins  published  in  this  year  a  novel,  avow- 
edly based  on  the  acted  drama  of  Pericles,  with  the  fol- 
lowing title-page : — "  The  Painful  Adventures  of  Per- 
icles, Prince  of  Tyre.  Being  the  true  History  of  Pericle^^, 
as  it  was  lately  presented  by  the  worthy  and  ancient  Poet, 
John  Gower." 

1609.  Two  editions  of  the  play  of  Pericles  were 
issued,  "  by  William  Shakespeare  "  [but  evidently  only  in 
part  by  him,  otherwise  by  George  Wilkins :  though  re- 
issued in  1611,  1619,  1630,  and  1635,  the  play  was  not 
included  in  either  the  first  or  second  folios,  cp  Preface]. 

1609.  On  January  28  Richard  Bonian  and  Henry 
Walley  obtained  a  license  for  "  a  booke  called  the  history 
of  Troylus  and  Cressida,"  i.e.  Shakespeare's  play,  which 
soon  after  was  published  as  a  quarto,  (i.)  with  a  title- 
page  stating  that  the  play  was  printed  "  as  acted  by  the 
King's  Majesties  servants  at  the  Globe,"  and  (ii.)  with  a 
title-page  omitting  this  reference,  and  adding  a  preface 
to  the  effect  that  the  play  was  "  never  staled  with  the 
stage,  never  clapper-clawed  with  the  palms  of  the  vul- 
gar," etc.  {cp.  Preface). 

On  May  20  a  license  for  the  publication  of  ''  Shake- 
speare's Sonnets''  was  granted  to  the  publisher,  Thomas 
Thorpe ;  the  volume  was  shortly  afterwards  published 
{cp.  Preface). 

Coriolanus  probably  belongs  to  this  year  (cp.  Preface). 

At  the  end  of  the  year,  Shakespeare's  Company  took 
possession  of  the  Blackfriars  Theatre  after  the  departure 
of  the  Children  of  the  Chapel. 

1610.  [possibly  an  error  for  161 1].  On  April 
20  of  this  year  Dr.  Simon  Forman  was  present  at  a  per- 
formance of  Macbeth  at  the  Globe,  and  recorded  the  fact, 
with  observations,  in  his  "  Book  of  Plays." 

Dr.  Simon  Forman  saw  Cynibeline  acted  either  this 
year  or  the  next   (the  Diary  contains  reports  of  Shake- 

40 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE 


1610 


spearian  representations  in  1610-1611,  but  no  date  is  as- 
signed to  the  Cyjubcline  entry,  cp.  Preface). 

An  interesting  pamphlet  was  pubHshed  this  year  by 
Sylvester  Jourdain,  entitled  A  Discovery  of  the  Ber- 
mudas, othenvise  called  the  He  of  Devils;  by  Sir  Thomas 
Gates,  Sir  George  So  miners,  and  Captayne  Nezvport,  and 
divers  others.  (William  Strachey's  fuller  account  of  the 
matter  was  printed  in  1612,  Preface  to  Tempest). 

John  Davies  of  Hereford's  The  Scourge  of  Folly,  con- 
sisting of  satirical  Epigrams  and  others  in  honour  of 
many  noble  and  worthy  persons  of  our  land,  contains  the 
following  verses  addressed  *'  To  our  English  Terence, 
Mr  Will :  Shake-speare  "  : — 

"  Some  say,  good  Will,  which  I,  in  sport,  do  sing, 
Had'st  thou  not  played  some  kingly  parts  in  sport, 
Thou  hadst  been  a  companion  for  a  king. 
And  been  a  King  among  the  meaner  sort. 
Some  others  rail,  but  rail  as  they  think  fit, 
Thou  hast  no  railing,  but  a  reigning  wit ; 
And  honesty  thou  sow'st,  which  they  do  reap, 
So  to  increase  their  stock  which  they  do  keep." 


New  Place,  Stratford,  1702. 

There  is  no  authentic  record  of  the  appearance  of  the  house  as  it  was 

in  Shakespeare's  time. 

41 


1613 


ANNALS  or  THE 


In  April  Shakespeare  purchased  from  the  Combes  20 
acres  of  land  {cp.  1602). 

1611.  On  May  15  Dr.  Forman  witnessed  the  per- 
formance of  A  Winter's  Talc  at  the  Globe  Theatre — evi- 
dently a  new  play  at  the  time  {cp.  Preface). 

IMalone  stated,  on  evidence  no  longer  accessible,  that 
The  Ton  pest  was  in  existence  in  this  year. 

Shakespeare's  name  is  found  on  the  margin  of  a  sub- 
scription list  started  at  Stratford-on-Avon  on  September 
II,  "  towards  the  charge  of  prosecuting  the  bill  in  Parlia- 
ment for  the  better  repair  of  the  highway."  By  this  time 
he  had  probably  settled  at  Xew  Place. 


1613.  On  February  4  Shakespeare's  third  brother, 
Richard,  was  buried  in  the  parish  church,  Stratford-upon- 
Avon.  Soon  afterwards  Shake- 
speare was  in  London,  and  pur- 
chased a  house,  as  an  investment, 
in  Blackfriars.  The  purchase- 
deed,  dated  March  10,  with  the 
poet's  signature,  is  preserved  in 
the  Guildhall  Library,  London. 
Next  day  a  mortgage-deed  rela- 
ting to  the  purchase  was  signed : 
this  is  also  extant,  and  is  now  in 
the  British  ]\Iuseum. 

To  this  year,  July  15,  belongs 
an  entry  by  the  Registrar  of  the 
Ecclesiastical  Court  of  Worcester, 
concerning  an  action  for  slander 
brought  by  Shakespeare's  eldest 
daughter,  Susanna  Hall,  against  a 
person  of  the  name  of  Lane. 
Signature  of  Shakespeare  from  Robert    Whatcott,     Shakespeare's 

the    deed     mortgaging-    his    .   .        ,  .  i  •    r        -^ 

house    in    Blackfriars,     on   friend,     waS    the    Chiei    WltUCSS    OU 

BrifL^hM'ustuiS:''""'"  '^'  behalf  of  the  plaintiflf,  whose  char- 

42 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE  1613 

acter  was  vindicated,  and  the  defendant,  who  did  not  ap- 
pear in  court,  was  excommunicated. 

The  Tempest,  one  of  a  series  of  nineteen  plays,  was 
performed  at  the  festivities  in  celebration  of  the  marriage 
of  Princess  Elizabeth  with  the  Elector  Frederick. 

Besides  The  Tempest,  six  more  of  Shakespeare's  plays 
were  produced  on  this  occasion: — Much  Ado,  Tempest, 
Winter's  Tale,  Sir  John  Falstaff  (i.e.  Merry  Wives), 
Othello,  Julius  Ccosar,  and  Hotspur  (probably  i  Henry 
IV.). 

In  the  same  list  occurs  the  lost  play  of  cardenno  or 
cardenna,  which  on  September  9,  1653,  was  entered  on 
the  "  Stationers'  Registers  "  as  "  by  Fletcher  and  Shake- 
speare," but  was  never  published. 

On  June  29th  of  this  year  the  Globe  Theatre  was 
burned  down  during  the  performance  of  a  play  on  the 
subject  of  Henry  VIIJ.  (cp.  Preface). 

"  A  Sonnet  upon  the  pitiful  burning  of  the  Globe  play- 
house in  London  "  was  composed  by  one  who  was  well 
acquainted  with  the  details  of  the  fire : — 

"  Now  sit  ye  down,  Melpomene, 
Wrapt  in  a  sea-cole  robe, 
And  tell  the  doleful  tragedy, 
That  late  was  played  at  Globe ; 
For  no  man  that  can  sing  and  say 
Was  scared  on  St.  Peter's  daye. 

Oh  sorrow,  pitiful   sorrow,  and  yet  all  this  is  true. 

Out  run* the  knights,  out  run  the  lords. 

And  there  was  great  ado ; 

Some  lost  their  hats  and  some  their  swords. 

E'en  out-run  Burbidge  too ; 

The  reprobates  though  drunk  on  Monday, 

Prayed  for  the  fool  and  Henry  Condye. 

Oh  sorrow,  pitiful   sorrow,  and  yet  all  this  is  true. 

The  perriwigs  and  drum-heads  fry. 

Like  to  a  butter  firkin. 

A  woful  burning  did  betide 

To  many  a  good  buff  jerkin. 

43 


1614 


ANNALS  OF  THE 


Then  will  swoH'n  eyes,  like  drunken  Flemminges, 
Distressed  stood  old  stuttering  Hemminges. 

Oh  sorrow,  pitiful  sorrow,  and  yet  all  this  is  true." 

1614.  Ben  Jonson  in  the  Introduction  to  his  Bar- 
thoiojjiezc  Fair,  first  acted  in  this  year,  alluded  to  TJie 
Tempest'. — "If  there  be  never  a  Servant-monster  \  the 
Fair,  who  can  help  it.  he  says?    nor  a  nest  of  Antics. 

He  is  loth  to  make  na- 
ture afraid  in  his  Plays, 
like  those  that  beget 
Tales,  Tempests,  and 
such  like  Drolleries.^' 

In  July  of  this  year 
John  Combe  died,  leav- 
ing- Shakespeare  a  leg- 
acy of  £5. 

In  the  autumn  an 
attempt  was  made  by 
William  Combe,  John 
Combe's  heir  to  enclose 

A  piece  of  glass,  W.A.S.  (William  and  Anne  the         COmmon         fields 
Shakespeare?)  supposed  to  have  come  from  about  his  estate  at  Wel- 

combe.  Shakespeare's 
interest  as  landowner  and  leaseholder  of  tithes  would 
have  suffered  if  the  project  had  been  carried  out.  On 
October  18,  Replingham,  Combe's  agent,  agreed  to  give 
him  full  compensation  for  injury  by  ''  any  inclosure  or 
decay  of  tillage,"  and  accordingly  he  did  not  oppose  the 
inclosure.  The  Corporation,  however,  maintained  its  op- 
position. 

In  November  Shakespeare  went  to  London,  and  his 
cousin,  Thomas  Greene,  town  clerk  of  Stratford,  visited 
him  there  to  discuss  the  matter  on  behalf  of  the  Corpora- 
tion. On  December  23,  the  Corporation  addressed  a 
formal  letter  to  Shakespeare,  supported  by  a  private  note 
to  "  my  cousin  "  from  T.  Greene,  asking  him  to  support 
their  opposition   to  the   inclosure,   which   if   carried   out 

44 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE  1616 

would   cause   great   inconveniences.      The   whole   project 
was  ultimately  abandoned. 

1615.  In  Thomas  Greene's  diary  there  is  the  fol- 
lowing entry  :— "  Sept.  Mr  Shakespeare  telling  J.  Greene 
that  I  was  not  able  to  beare  the  encloseing  of  Welcombe." 

1616.  '  Early  in  this  year  Francis  Collins,  a  solicitor 
of  Warw^ick,  prepared  the  draft  of  Shakespeare's  will ; 
the  engrossment  was  evidently  to  have  been  signed  on 
January  25th,  but  after  many  interlineations  and  erasures, 
it  was  not  finally  signed  until  ]\Iarch.  The  signature  was 
appended  to  each  of  the  three  sheets  of  the  will ;  these 
three  signatures,  together  with  the  two  referred  to  above, 
are  the  only  undisputed  autographs  of  the  poet. 

Shakespeare's  V/ill — signatures  of  the  testator  and  witnesses. 

In  the  interval,  Judith,  the  poet's    younger   daughter, 
was  married  on  February  loth,  at  Stratford  Church,  to 

45 


1616 


ANNALS  OF  THE 


Thomas  Quiney,  vintner  and  wine-merchant,  son  of  Rich- 
ard Quiney,  whose  letter  to  the  poet  is  extant  {cp,  1598). 

The  marriage  was  somewhat  irregular ;  and  the  parties 
were  summoned  a  few  weeks  afterwards  to  the  Ecclesi- 
astical Court  at  Worcester,  and  fined  for  getting  married 
without  a  license. 

It  would  seem  that  at  the  time  of  revising^  and  signing 
the  will,  the  poet  was  seriously  ill.  According  to  a  local 
tradition,  recorded  in  the  Diary  of  the  Rev.  John  Ward, 
vicar  of  Stratford-on-Avon  (1662),  "  Shakespeare,  Dray- 
ton, and  Ben  Jonson  had  a  merry  meeting,  and,  it  seems, 
drank  too  hard,  for  Shakespeare  died  of  a  fever  there 
contracted."  but  it  is  quite  clear  that  already,  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  year,  the  poet  recognised  his  health  was 
failing. 

On  April  23  (Alay  3,  new  style)  he  died,  having  com- 
pleted his  fifty-second  year — the  death-day  in  all  prob- 
ability being  on  his  birthday. 

Two  days  after  his  death,  on  the  25th  of  April,  the  re- 
mains of  the  poet  were  interred  in  the  chancel  of  Strat- 
ford Church.  On  a  flat  stone  over  the  grave  the  following 
words  were  subsequently  inscribed  : — 


Good  FKEN.t)rORlESUS  5AKE  FORBEARE, 


TO  DIG} a  TIE  DVST    ENCLOA3ED  H]AKE: 
BlE^T  BE  Y  MAN  Y  5PARES  TiE^  ^TONE^. 


AMD  CVR; 


E^    MY   BONE^ 


[A  letter  wTitten  in  the  year  1694  by  William  Hall,  an 
Oxford  graduate,  to  his  intimate  friend,  Edward 
Thwaites,  the  eminent  Anglo-Saxon  scholar,  contains  the 
following  noteworthy  passage  : — 

"  I  very  greedily  embrace  this  occasion  of  acquainting 

46 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE  1616 

you  with  something  which  I  found  at  Stratford-upon- 
Avon.  That  place  I  came  unto  on  Thursday  night,  and 
the  next  day  went  to  visit  the  ashes  of  the  great  Shake- 
spear,  which  be  interr'd  in  that  church.  The  verses  w^hich 
in  his  Hfe-time  he  ordered  to  be  cut  upon  his  tombstone, 
for  his  monument  have  others,  are  these  which  follow, 
'  Reader,  for  Jesus's  sake  forbear,  etc'  The  little  learn- 
ing these  verses  contain  would  be  a  very  strong  argument 
of  the  want  of  it  in  the  author,  did  not  they  carry  some- 
thing in  them  which  stands  in  need  of  a  comment.  There 
is  in  this  church  a  place  which  they  call  the  bone-house, 
a  repository  for  all  bones  they  dig  up,  which  are  so  many 
that  they  would  load  a  great  number  of  waggons.  The 
poet,  being  willing  to  preserve  his  bones  unmoved,  lays  a 
curse  upon  him  that  moves  them.,  and  having  to  do  with 
clerks  and  sextons,  for  the  most  part  a  very  ignorant 
sort  of  people,  he  descends  to  the  meanest  of  their  ca- 
pacities, and  disrobes  himself  of  that  art  which  none  of 
his  co-temporaries  wore  in  greater  perfection.  Nor  has 
the  design  missed  of  its  effect,  for,  lest  they  should  not 
only  draw  this  curse  upon  themselves,  but  also  entail  it 
upon  their  posterity,  they  have  laid  him  full  seventeen 
foot  deep,  deep  enough  to  secure  him."] 

On  June  22  the  will  was  proved  in  London  by  John 
Hall,  Shakespeare's  son-in-law  and  joint-executor  (see 
Appendix). 

Some  years  after  (before  1623)  the  monument,  exe- 
cuted by  Gerard  Johnson,  w^as  erected  against  the  north 
wall  of  the  chancel :  beneath  the  famous  bust  of  Shake- 
speare is  the  following  inscription  : — 

Jndicio  Pylinm.  genio  Socratem.  arte  Maronem, 
Terra  tegit.  populus  maeret.  Olympus  habet. 

Stay  passenger,  why  goest  thou  by  so  fast  ? 
Read,  if  thou  canst,  whom  envious  death  hath  plast 
Within  this  monument ;    Shakespeare  with  whome 
Quick  nature  dide  :  whose  name  doth  deck  y«  tombe 

47 


1619  ANNALS  OF  THE 

Far  more  than  cost ;  sith  all  y*  he  hath  writt 
Leaves  living  art  but  page  to  serve  his  witt. 

Obiit  Ano  Do^  1616 
Mtatis  53,   die  23   Ap. 

Shakespeare's  widow  died  on  August  6,  1623,  and  was 
buried  near  the  poet  inside  the  chancel;  Mrs.  Susanna 
Hall,  the  elder  daughter,  died  on  July  11,  1649,  ^^d  was 
buried  beside  her  husband,  who  pre-deceased  her  in  1635 ; 
the  inscription  on  her  tombstone  {cp.  accompanying  illus- 
tration) is  especially  noteworthy;  Judith,  the  younger 
daughter,  died  at  Stratford  on  February  9,  1661-2;  Eliza- 
beth, the  poet's  only  grandchild,  was  married  in  1626  to 
Thomas  Nash,  who  died  in  1647,  ^'^'^^  after  his  death,  to 
Sir  John  Barnard  of  Abingdon,  near  Northampton ;  she 
died  on  the  17th  of  February,  1669-70,  leaving  no  issue  by 
either  marriage.  The  three  children  of  Judith  Shake- 
speare died  young:  no  one  of  them  attained  to  man's 
estate.  On  the  death  of  Lady  Barnard  the  heir  to  the 
Henley  Street  property  was  Thomas  Hart,  the  grandson 
of  the  poet's  sister  Joan — the  last  of  the  Hart  family,  in 
the  male  line,  being  John  Hart,  who  died  in  1800. 

1619.  In  this  year  died  Richard  Burbage,  the  fa- 
mous actor,  Shakespeare's  life-long  friend.  An  elegy 
"  on  Mr  Richard  Burbage  an  excellent  both  painter  and 
player,''  composed  soon  after  his  death,  recorded  his  chief 
Shakespearian  roles : — 

"  Some  skilful  limner  aid  me ;    if  not  so, 
Some  sad  tragedian  help  to  express  my  woe  ; 
But,  oh !  he  's  gone,  that  could  the  best  both  limn 
And  act  my  grief;  and  it  is  only  him 
That  I  invoke  this  strange  assistance  to  it. 
And  on  the  point  intreat  himself  to  do  it; 
For  none  but  Tully  Tully's  praise  can  tell. 
And  as  he  could  no  man  could  do  so  well 
This  part  of  sorrow  for  him,  nor  here  show- 
So  truly  to  the  life  this  map  of  woe, 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE 


Inscriptions 


II 

as 


.If. 

lllfll 


n  I 


III! 


iHi 


Si  > 

11! 

rf     I     4 

iii 

i! 


I.l- 


i?i 

III 

5  =  a 

Iff 

III 


Ts  I 


-f 

Lis  I 


lilt 


fflfli 


.!    :       if  liiill 


it  h 


tjii  1*11 


an  jjlhi 


49 


1623  ANNALS  OF  THE 

That  grief's  true  picture  which  his  loss  hath  bred. 

He  's  gone,  and  with  him  what  a  world  is  dead, 

Which  he  revived;  to  be  revived  so 

No  more :  young  Hamlet,  old  Hieronimo, 

King  Lear,  the  grieved  Moor,  and  more  beside 

That  lived  in  him,  have  now  for  ever  died. 

Oft  have  I  seen  him  leap  into  the  grave, 

Suiting  the  person  (that  he  seemed  to  have) 

Of  a  sad  lover  with  so  true  an  eye. 

That  then  I  would  have  sworn  he  meant  to  die. 

Oft  have  I  seen  him  play  this  part  in  jest 

So  lively,  that  spectators  and  the  rest 

Of  his  sad  crew,  whilst  he  but  seemed  to  bleed, 

Amazed  thought  even  that  he  died  indeed. 

And  did  not  knowledge  check  me,  I  should  swear 

Even  yet  it  is  a  false  report  I  hear. 

And  think  that  he  that  did  so  truly  feign 

Is  still  but  dead  in  jest,  to  live  again; 

But  now  he  acts  this  part,  not  plays,  'tis  known ; 

Others  he  played,  but  acted  hath  his  own." 

In  this  year  were  published  a  second  edition  of  Merry 
Wives  and  a  fourth  edition  of  Pericles. 

1622.  Othello  first  printed,  as  a  quarto,  and  new 
editions  (the  sixth)  of  Richard  III.  and  i  Henry  IJ\ 

1623.  In  this  year,  under  the  editorship  of  Shake- 
speare's fellow-actors  and  friends,  John  Heming  and 
Henry  Condell,  appeared  The  First  Folio,  containing 
twenty  hitherto  unprinted  plays : — The  Tempest,  The 
Two  Gentlemen,  Measure  for  Measure,  Taming  of  the 
Shrew,  Comedy  of  Error's,  As  You  Like  It,  All's  Well, 
Twelfth  Night,  Winter's  Tale,  King  John,  i,  2,  3  Henry 
VI.,  Henry  VII  I.,  Coriolamis,  Timon,  Jul  ins  Ccesar,  Mac- 
beth, Antony  and  Cleopatra  and  Cymbeline. 

The  play  of  Troilns  and  Cressida,  though  included  in 
the  First  Folio,  was  omitted  in  the  table  of  contents  (cp. 
Preface  to  Troilns  and  Cressida). 

The  editors  evidently  purposely  omitted  Pericles  (first 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE  1623 

included,  together  with  six  pseudo-Shakespeare  plays,  in 
the  Third  Folio  of  1663). 

[The  Tzi'o  Noble  Kinsmen  was  first  published  in  1634, 
as  being  *'  by  the  memorable  worthies  of  their  time,  Mr 
John  Fletcher  and  Mr  William  Shakespeare,  gentle- 
.men."] 

The  prefatory  matter  of  the  First  Folio  will  be  found  in 
\'ol.  I.  of  the  present  edition  ;  it  should  be  noted  that  Ben 
Jonson  in  his  lines  '*  I  will  not  lodge  thee  by  Chaucer,  or 
Spenser,  or  Lord  Beaumont  lie,"  etc.,  directly  refers  to 
William  Basse's  elegy  on  Shakespeare,  then  circulating 
in  manuscript  (first  printed  in  the  first  edition  of  Donne's 
collected  poems,  1633)  • — 

On  Mr  \Vm.  Shakespeare. 

He  died  in  April  1616. 

"  Renowned  Spenser  lie  a  thought  more  nigh 
To  learned  Chaucer,  and  rare  Beaumont  lie 
A  little  nearer  Spenser,  to  make  room 
For  Shakespeare  in  your  three-fold,  four-fold  tomb. 
To  lodge  all  four  in  one  bed  make  a  shift 
Until  Doomsday,  for  hardly  will  a  fift, 
Betwixt  this  day  and  that  by  Fate  be  slain. 
For  whom  your  curtains  will  be  drawn  again. 
If  your  precedency  in  death  doth  bar 
A  fourth  place  in  your  sacred  sepulchre, 
Under  this  carved  marble  of  thine  own. 
Sleep,  rare  Tragedian,  Shakespeare,  sleep  alone ; 
Thy  unmolested  peace,  unshared  cave, 
Possess  as  Lord,  not  Tenant,  of  thy  grave, 

That  unto  us  and  others  it  may  be 

Honour  hereafter  to  be  laid  by  thee." 

(From  Lansdowne  MS.  temp.  James  I., 
modernised.) 

Among  the  commendatory  verses  prefixed  to  the  First 
Folio  are  some  lines  by  Leonard  Digges :  another  poem  by 
the  same  author  is  found  prefixed  to  the  edition  of  Shake- 
speare's poems  published  in  1640,  but  as  the  author  died 

51 


1623  ANNALS  OF  THE 

in  1635,  i^  ^^  quite  possible  that  the  poem  then  first 
printed  was  originally  intended  for  the  1623  Folio,  and 
this  is  borne  out  by  the  general  tone  of  the  lines  : — 

"  Poets  are  born  not  made, — when  I  would  prove 
This  truth,  the  glad  remembrance  I  must  love 
Of  never-dying  Shakespeare,  who  alone 
Is  argument  enough  to  make  that  one. 
First,  that  he  was  a  poet  none  would  doubt, 
That  heard  th'  applause  of  what  he  sees  set  out 
Imprinted ;  where  thou  hast — I  will  not  say, 
Reader,  his  Works  for  to  contrive  a  play 
To  him  'twas  none, — the  pattern  of  all  wit. 
Art  without  Art  unparalleled  as  yet. 
Next  Nature  only  helped  him,  for  look  thorough 
This  whole  book,  thou  shalt  find  he  doth  not  borrow 
One  phrase  from  Greeks,  nor  Latins  imitate, 
Nor  once  from  vulgar  languages  translate. 
Nor  plagiary-like  from  others  glean  ; 
Nor  begs  he  from  each  witty  friend  a  scene 
To  piece«his  Acts  with ;  all  that  he  doth  write, 
Is  pure  his  own;  plot,  language  exquisite. 
But  oh  !  what  praise  more  powerful  can  we  give 
The  dead,  than  that  by  him  the  King's  Men  live. 
His  players,  which  should  they  but  have  shared  the  fate, 
All  else  expired  within  the  short  term's  date. 
How  could  the  Globe  have  prospered,  since,  through  want 
Of  change,  the  plays  and  poems  had  grown  scant  ? 
But,  happy  verse  thou  shalt  be  sung  and  heard. 
When  hungry  quills  shall  be  such  honour  barred. 
Then  vanish,  upstart  writers  to  each  stage, 
You  needy  poetasters  of  this  age ; 
Where  Shakespeare  lived  or  spake,  vermin,  forbear, 
Lest  with  your  froth  you  spot  them,  come  not  near ; 
But  if  you  needs  must  write,  if  poverty 
So  pinch,  that  otherwise  you  starve  and  die. 
On  God's  name  may  the  Bull  or  Cockpit  have 
Your  lame  blank  verse,  to  keep  you  from  the  grave : 
Or  let  new  Fortune's  younger  brethren  see. 
What  they  can  pick  from  your  lean  industry. 
I  do  not  wonder  when  you  offer  at 
Blackfriars,  that  you  suffer :  'tis  the  fate 

52 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE  1623 

Of  richer  veins,  prime  judgments  that  have  fared 

The  worse,  with  this  deceased  man  compared. 

So  have  I  seen,  when  Caesar  would  appear, 

And  on  the  stage  at  half-sword  parley  were, 

Brutus  and  Cassius,  oh  how  the  audience 

Were  ravished !  with  what  wonder  they  went  thence, 

When  some  new  day  they  would  not  brook  a  line 

Of  tedious,   though   well  laboured,   Catiline ; 

Sejanus  too  was  irksome,  they  prized  more 

Honest  lago  or  the  jealous  Moor. 

And  though  the  Fox  and  subtle  Alchemist, 

Long  intermitted,  could  not  quite  be  missed. 

Though  these  have  shamed  all  the  ancients,  and  might  raise 

Their  author's  merit  with  a  crown  of  bays, 

Yet  these  sometimes,  even  at  a  friend's  desire 

Acted,  have  scarce  defrayed  the  seacoal  fire 

And  doorkeepers :  when,'  let  but  Falstaff  come, 

Hal,  Poins,  the  rest, — you  scarce  shall  have  a  room. 

All  is  so  pestered :  let  but  Beatrice 

And  Benedick  be  seen,  lo,  in  a  trice 

The  cockpit,  galleries,  boxes,  all  are  full 

To  hear  Malvolio,  that  cross-gartered  gull. 

Brief,  there  is  nothing  in  his  wit-fraught  book, 

Whose  sound  we  would  not  hear,  on  whose  worth  look. 

Like  old  coined  gold,  whose  lines  in  every  page 

Shall  pass  true  current  to  succeeding  age. 

But  why  do  I  dead  Shakespeare's  praise  recite. 

Some  second  Shakespeare  must  of  Shakespeare  write; 

For  me  'tis  needless,  since  an  host  of  men 

Will  pay,  to  clap  his  praise,  to  free  my  pen." 

The  Second  Folio,  reprinted  from  the  First,  was  printed 
in  1632;  it  contained,  by  way  of  new  prefatory  matter, 
sundry  verses  by  various  writers,  a  fine  eulogy,  signed  L 
M.  S.,  and,  as  a  golden  link  between  the  poets,  John 
Milton's  anonymous  Epitaph  on  the  Admirable  Dra- 
matic ke  Poet,  W.  Shakespeare,  written  in  1630,  prac- 
tically the  young  poet's  first  appearance  in  print : — 

"  What  need  my  Shakespeare  for  his  honour'd  bones, 
The  labour  of  an  age  in  piled  stones, 

53 


1623 


ANNALS  OF  SHAKESPEARE 


Or  that  his  hallow'd  Reliques  should  be  hid 

Under  a  stary-pointed  Pyramid? 

Dear  Son  of  Memory,  great  Heir  of  Fame, 

What  needst  thou  such  dull  witness  of  thy  Name  ? 

Thou  in  our  wonder  and  astonishment 

Hath  built  thyself  a  lasting  monument 

For  whil'st.  to  the  shame  of  slow-endeavouring  Art, 

Thy  easy  numbers  flow,  and  that  each  heart 

Hath  from  the  leaves  of  thy  unvalued  Book 

Those  Delphic  lines  with  deep  impression  took 

Then  thou,  our  fancy  of  herself  bereaving. 

Dost  make  us  marble  with  too  much  conceiving. 

And  so,  sepulcher'd  in  such  pomp  dost  lie 

That  Kings  for  such  a  Tomb  would  wish  to  die." 


Shakespeare's  Birth-place,  iSgg. 


54 


APPENDIX, 


I. 


License  to  Fletcher,  Shakespeare,  and  others  to  play 
comedies,  &c.,  ly  May,  1603. 

By  the  King. — Right  trusty  and  wel  beloved  Coun- 
sellour,  we  greete  you  well,  and  will  and  commaund  you 
that,  under  our  Privie  Seale  in  your  custody  for  the  time 
being,  you  cause  our  lettres  to  be  directed  to  the  Keeper  of 
our  Create  Seale  of  England,  comaunding  him  that  under 
our  said  Create  Seale  he  cause  our  lettres  to  be  made 
patentes  in  forme  following. — James,  by  the  grace  of 
Cod  King  of  England,  Scotland,  Fraunce  and  Irland,  De- 
fendor  of  the  Faith,  &c.,  to  all  justices,  maiors,  sheriff es, 
constables,  hedboroughes,  and  other  our  officers  and 
loving  subjectes  greeting.  Know  ye  that  we,  of  our 
speciall  grace,  certaine  knowledge  and  meere  motion, 
have  licenced  and  authorized,  and  by  these  presentes  doo 
licence  and  authorize,  these  our  servantes,  Lawrence 
Fletcher,  William  Shakespeare,  Richard  Burbage,  Au- 
gustine Phillippes,  John  Henninges^,  Henry  Condell,  Wil- 
liam Sly,  Robert  Armyn,  Richard  Cowlye  and  the  rest 
of  their  associates,  freely  to  use  and  exercise  the  arte 
and  facultie  of  playing  comedies,  tragedies,  histories,  en- 
terludes,  moralles,  pastoralles,  stage-plaies,  and  such 
other,  like  as  they  have  already  studied  or  heerafter  shall 
use  or  studie,  as  well  for  the  recreation  of  our  loving 
subjectes  as  for  our  solace  and  pleasure  when  we  shall 
thinke  good  to  see  them,  during  our  pleasure.  And  the 
said  comedies,  tragedies,  histories,  enterludes,  moralP, 
pastoralles,  stage-plaies,  and  such  like,  to  shew  and  exer- 
cise publiquely  to  their  best  commoditie.  when  the  infec- 

SS 


Malone's  Memoranda  APPENDIX 

tion  of  the  plague  shall  decrease,  as  well  within  their  now 
usuall  howse  called  the  Globe  within  our  countie  of  Sur- 
rey, as  also  within  any  towne-halles  or  mout-halles,  or 
other  convenient  places  within  the  liberties  and  freedome 
of  any  other  cittie,  universitie,  towne  or  borough  whatso- 
ever within  our  said  realmes  and  dominions,  willing  and 
comaunding  you  and  every  of  you,  as  you  tender  our 
pleasure,  not  only  to  permit  and  suffer  them  heerin  with- 
out any  your  lettes,  hinderances,  or  molestacions  during 
our  said  pleasure,  but  also  to  be  ayding  and  assisting  to 
them,  yf  any  wrong  be  to  them  offered,  and  to  allowe 
them  such  former  courtesies  as  hath  bene  given  to  men 
of  their  place  and  qualitie.  And  also,  what  further  favour 
y(ju  shall  shew  to  these  our  servantes  for  our  sake  we  shall 
take  kindely  at  your  handes.  In  witness  whereof  &c. 
And  these  our  lettres  shall  be  your  sufficient  warrant  and 
discharge  in  this  behalf.  Given  under  our  Signet  at  our 
Mannor  of  Greenwiche  the  seavententh  day  of  May  in  the 
first  yeere  of  our  raigne  of  England,  Fraunce  and  Irland, 
and  of  Scotland  the  six  and  thirtieth. — Ex :  per  Lake. — 
To  our  right  trusty  and  wel  beloved  Counsellour,  the 
Lord  Cecill  of  Esingdon,  Keeper  of  our  Privie  Seale  for 
the  time  being. 

II. 

Malone's  Memoranda  (in  the  Bodleian  Library)  from 
the  accounts  at  the  Revels  at  Court  for  1604  and  1605 ; 
the  original  source  of  the  information  {formerly  at  the 
Audit  Oifice  in  Somerset  House)  cannot  now  he  found. 
Cunninghanis  list,  printed  in  1842,  ivas  probably  based 
on  Malone's  document: — 

1604  &  1605 — Ed^.  Tylney — Sunday  after  Hallowmas 
— Merry  Wyves  of  Windsor  perf*^  by  the  K's  players — 
Hallamas — in  the  Banquetting  ho^.  at  Whitehall  the  Moor 
of  Venis — perf^  by  the  K's  players — on  S^  Stephens  Night 
— Mesure   for   Mesur   by    Shaxberd — perf*^.   by   the    K's 

S6 


APPENDIX  Deed  to  Henry  WalKer 

players — On  Innocents  night  Errors  by  Shaxberd  perf*^. 
by  the  K's  players — On  Sunday  following  ''  How  to  Learn 
of  a  Woman  to  wooe  by  Hewood,  perf^.  by  the  Q's  play- 
ers— On  New  Years  Night — All  fools  by  G.  Chapman 
perf'^.  by  the  Boyes  of  the  Chapel — bet  New  y""^.  day  and 
twelfth  day — Loves  Labour  lost  perf*^.  by  the  K's  p :  ™ — - 
On  the  7th  Jan.  K.  Hen.  the  fifth  perf^.  by  the  K.'s  P^^ — 
On  8th  Jan — Every  one  out  of  his  humour — On  Candle- 
mas night  Every  one  in  his  humour — On  Shrove  Sunday 
the  Marchant  of  Venis  by  Shaxberd — perf*^.  by  the  K's 
P^^ — the  same  repeated  on  Shrove  tuesd.  by  the  K's 
Comm*^. 

in. 

The  deed  from  Shakespeare  and  Trustees  to  Henry 
Walker,  by  which  the  Blackfriars  Estate  zvas  mortgaged 
to  the  latter,  nth  March,  1612-13  {in  the  British  Mu- 
seum), 

This  Indenture  made  the  eleaventh  day  of  March,  in 
the  yeares  of  the  reigne  of  our  Sovereigne  Lord  James, 
by  the  grace  of  God,  king  of  England,  Scotland,  Fraunce 
and  Ireland,  defender  of  the  Faith,  &c.,  that  is  to  saie,  of 
England,  Fraunce  and  Ireland  the  tenth,  and  of  Scotland 
the  six  and  fortith ;  betweene  William  Shakespeare,  of 
Stratford-upon-Avon  in  the  countie  of  Warwick,  gentle- 
man, William  Johnson,  citizein  and  vintener  of  London, 
John  Jackson  and  John  Hemmyng,  of  London,  gentle- 
men, of  th'one  partie,  and  Henry  Walker,  citizein  and 
minstrell  of  London,  of  th'other  partie:  Witnesseth  that 
the  said  William  Shakespeare,  William  Johnson,  John 
Jackson  and  John  Hemmyng,  have  dimised,  graunted  and 
to  ferme  letten,  and  by  theis  presentes  doe  dimise,  graunt 
and  to  ferme  lett  unto  the  said  Henry  Walker  all  that 
dwelling-house  or  tenement,  with  th'appurtenaunces,  situ- 
ate and  being  within  the  precinct,  circuit  and  compasse 
of  the  late  Black  Fryers,  London,  sometymes  in  the  tenure 
of  James  Gardyner,  esquiour,  and  since  that  in  the  tenure 

57 


Deed  to  Henry  WalKer  APPENDIX 

of  John  Fortescue,  gent.,  and  now  or  late  being  in  the 
tenure  or  occupacion  of  one  WilHam  Ireland,  or  of  his 
assignee  or  assignes,  abutting  upon  a  streete  leading 
downe  to  Puddle  Wharffe  on  the  east  part,  right  against 
the  Kinges  Majesties  Wardrobe;  part  of  which  said 
tenement  is  erected  over  a  greate  gate  leading  to  a  pacitall 
mesuage  which  sometyme  was  in  the  tenure  of  William 
Blackwell,  esquiour,  deceased,  and  since  that  in  the  tenure 
or  occupacion  of  the  right- honourable  Henry,  now  Earle 
of  Northumberland ;  and  also  all  that  plott  of  ground,  on 
the  west  side  of  the  same  tenement,  which  was  lately 
inclosed  with  boordes  on  two  sides  thereof  by  Anne 
Bacon,  widow,  soe  farre  and  in  such  sorte  as  the  same 
was  inclosed  by  the  said  Anne  Bacon,  and  not  otherwise, 
and  being  on  the  third  side  inclosed  with  an  olde  brick 
wall ;  which  said  plott  of  ground  was  sometyme  parcell 
and  taken  out  of  a  great  voyde  peece  of  ground  lately  used 
for  a  garden ;  and  also  the  soyle  whereuppon  the  said 
tenement  standeth,  and  also  the  said  brick  wall  and 
boordes  which  doe  inclose  the  said  plott  of  ground,  with 
free  entrie,  accesse,  ingresse,  egresse  and  regresse,  in. 
by  and  through  the  said  great  gate  and  yarde  there, 
unto  the  usuall  dore  of  the  said  tenement ;  and  also  all 
and  singuler  cellours,  sellers,  romes,  lightes,  easia- 
mentes,  profittes,  commodities  and  appurtenaunces  what- 
soever to  the  said  dwelling-house  or  tenement  belong- 
ing, or  in  any  wise  apperteyning :  to  have  and  to 
holde  the  said  dwelling-house  or  tenement,  cellers,  sollers, 
romes,  plott  of  ground,  and  all  and  singuler  other  the 
premisses  above  by  theis  presentes  mencioned  to  bee  di- 
mised,  and  every  part  and  parcell  thereof,  with  th'appur- 
tenaunces,  unto  the  said  Henrye  W^alker,  his  executours, 
administratours  and  assignes,  from  the  feast  of  th'an- 
nunciacion  of  the  blessed  Virgin  Marye  next  comming 
after  the  date  hereof,  unto  th'ende  and  terme  of  one  hun- 
dred yeares  from  thence  next  ensuing,  and  fullie  to  bee 
compleat  and  ended,  without  ympeachment  of  or  for  any 
manner  of  waste ;   yeelding  and  paying  therefore  yearlie 

58 


APPENDIX  Deed  to  Henry  Walker 


during  the  said  terme  unto  the  said  WilUam  Shakespeare, 
Wllham   Johnson,    John   Jackson   and   John    Hemmyng, 
their  heires  and  assignes,  a  peppercorne  at  the  feast  of 
Easter  yearhe,  yf  the'  same  bee  lawfulHe  demaunded,  and 
noe  more;    provided  alwayes  that  if  the  said   WiUiam 
Shakespeare,  his  heires,  executours,  administratours  or  as- 
signes, or  any  of  them,  doe  well  and  truUe  paie  or  cans? 
to'bee  paid  to  the  said  Henry  Walker,  his  executours,  ad- 
ministratours or  assignes,  the  some  of  threescore  pounde.? 
of  lawfull  money  of  England  in  and  upon  the  nyne  and 
twentith  day  of  September  next  comming  after  the  date 
hereof,  at  or  in  the  nowe  dwelling-house  of  the  said  Henry 
Walker,  situate  and  being  in  the  parish  of  Saint  Martyn 
neere  Ludgate,  of  London,  at  one  entier-  payment  with- 
out delaie,  that  then  and  from  thensforth  this  presente 
lease,  dimise  and  graunt,  and  all  and  every  matter  and 
thing   herein   conteyned,    other  then   this   provisoe,   shall 
cease,  determyne,  and  bee  utterlie  voyde,  frustrate,  and  of 
none  effect,  as  though  the  same  had  never  beene  had  ne 
made,  theis  presentes,  or  any  thing  therein  conteyned  to 
the  contrarv  thereof,  in  anv  wise  notwithstanding.     And 
the  said  William   Shakespeare,   for  himselfe,  his  heires, 
executours  and  administratours,  and  for  every  of  them, 
-doth   covenaunt,   promisse  and  graunt  to   and   with  the 
said  Henrv  AA^alker,  his  executours,  administratours  and 
assignes    and    everv    of    them,    by    theis    presentes,    that 
hee,    the    said    William    Shakespeare,    his    heires,    exec- 
utours, administratours  or  assignes,  shall  and  will  cleer- 
lie  acquite,   exonerate   and  discharge,   or   from   tyme  to 
tvme,   and  at  all  tvmes  hereafter,   well  and   sufficientlie 
save  and  keep  harm'les  the  said  Henry  Walker,  his  execu- 
tours, administratours  and  assignes,  and  every  of  them, 
and  the  said  premises  by  theis  presentes   dimised,   and 
every    parcell    thereof,    with    th'appurtenaunces,    of    and 
from  all  and  al  manner  of  former  and  other  bargaynes, 
sales,  guiftes,  grauntes,  leases,  joyntures,  dowers,  intailes, 
statutes,  recognizaunces,  judgmentes,  execucions,  and  of 
and  from  all  and  every  other  charges,  titles,  trobles  and  in- 

59 


The  Will  APPENDIX 

cumbraunces  whatsoever  by  the  said  WiUiam  Shake- 
speare, WilHam  Johnson,  John  Jackson  and  John  Hem- 
myng,  or  any  of  them,  or  by  their  or  any  of  their  meanes, 
had,  made,  committed  or  donne,  before  th'enseahng  and 
delivery  of  theis  presentes,  or  hereafter  before  the  said 
nyne  and  twentith  day  of  September  next  comming  after 
the  date  hereof,  to  bee  had,  made,  committed  or  donne, 
except  the  rentes  and  services  to  the  cheefe  lord  or  lordes 
of  the  fee  or  fees  of  the  premisses,  for  or  in  respect 
of  his  or  their  seigniorie  or  seigniories  onlie,  to  bee  due 
and  donne.  In  witnesse  whereof  the  said  parties  to 
theis  indentures  interchaungablie  have  sett  their  scales. 
Yeoven  the  day  and  yeares  first  above  written.  1612 — 
Will.  Shakspere, — Wm.  Johnson. — Jo:  Jackson. — Sealed 
and  delivered  by  the  said  William  Shakespeare,  William 
Johnson,  and  John  Jackson,  in  the  presence  of  Will :  At- 
kinson ;  Ed.  Query  ;  Robert  Andrewes,  scr. ;  Henry  Law- 
rence, servant  to  the  same  scr. 

IV. 

Shakespeare's  Will  {preserved  at  Somerset  House). 
{The  Italics  represent  interlineations.) 

Vicesimo  quinto  die  Januarii  Martii,  anno  regni  domini 
nostri  Jacobi,  nunc  regis  Anglie,  &c.  decimo  quarto,  et 
Scotie  xlix°  annoque  Domini  1616. 

T.  Wmi.  Shackspeare. — In  the  name  of  God,  amen !  I 
William  Shackspeare,  of  Stratford-upon-Avon  in  the 
countie  of  Warr.  gent.,  in  perfect  health  and  memorie, 
God  be  praysed,  doe  make  and  ordayne  this  my  last  will 
and  testament  in  manner  and  forme  foUoweing,  that  ys  to 
saye,  First,  I  comend  my  soule  into  the  handes  of  God  my 
Creator,  hoping  and  assuredlie  beleeving,  through  thonelie 
merittes  of  Jesus  Christe,  my  Saviour,  to  me  made  par- 
taker of  lyfe  everlastinge,  and  my  bodye  to  the  earth 
whereof  yt  ys  made.     Item,  I  gyve  and  bequeath  unto 

60 


APPENDIX  The  Will 

my  Sonne  in  L  daughter  Judyth  one  hundred  and  fyftie 
poundes  of  lawfull  Enghsli  money,  to  be  paied  unto  her  in 
manner  and  forme  followeing,  that  ys  to  saye,  one  hun- 
dred poundes  in  discharge  of  her  marriage  porcion  within 
one  yeare  after  my  deceas,  with  consideracion  after  the 
rate  of  twoe  shilhnges  in  the  pound  for  soe  long  tyme  as 
the  same  shal  be  unpaied  unto  her  after  my  deceas,  and 
the  fyftie  poundes  residewe  thereof  upon  her  surrendring 
of,  or  gyving  of  such  sufficient  securitie  as  the  overseers 
of  this  my  will  shall  like  of  to  surrender  or  graunte,  all 
her  estate  and  right  that  shall  discend  or  come  unto  her 
after  my  deceas,  or  tJiat  shee  nowe  hath,  of,  in  of  to,  one 
copiehold  tenemente  with  thappurtenaunces  lyeing  and 
being  in  Stratford-upon-Avon  aforesaied  in  the  saied 
countie  of  Warr.,  being  parcell  or  holden  of  the  mannour 
of  Rowington,  unto  my  daughter  Susanna  Hall  and  her 
heires  for  ever.  Item,  I  gyve  and  bequeath  unto  my  saied 
daughter  Judith  one  hundred  and  fyftie  poundes  more, 
if  shee  or  anie  issue  of  her  bodie  be  lyvinge  att  thend  of 
three  yeares  next  ensueing  the  dale  of  the  date  of  this  my 
will,  during  which  tyme  my  executours  to^  paie  her  con- 
sideracion from  my  deceas  according  to  the  rate  afore- 
saied ;  and  if  she  dye  within  the  saied  terme  without  issue 
of  her  bodye,  then  my  will  ys,  and  I  doe  gyve  and  be- 
queath one  hundred  poundes  thereof  to  my  neece  Eliza- 
beth Hall,  and  the  fiftie  poundes  to  be  sett  fourth  by  my 
executours  during  the  lief  of  my  sister  Johane  Harte, 
and  the  use  and  proffitt  thereof  cominge  shal  be  payed 
to  my  saied  sister  Jone,  and  after  her  deceas  the  saied  1.^'- 
shall  remaine  amongst  the  children  of  my  saied  sister 
cquallie  to  be  devided  amongst  them ;  but  if  my  saied 
daughter  Judith  be  lyving  att  the  end  of  the  saied  three 
yeares,  or  anie  yssue  of  her  bodye,  then  my  will  ys  and  soe 
I  devise  and  bequeath  the  saied  hundred  and  fyftie  poundes 
to  be  sett  out  by  my  executours  and  orerseers  for  the  best 
benefitt  of  her  and  her  issue,  and  the  stock  not  to  be  paied 
unto  her  soe  long  as  she  shalbe  marryed  and  covert  baron 
by  my  executours  and  overseers  ;   but  my  will  ys  that  she 

6i 


The  Will  APPENDIX 

shall  have  the  conslderacion  yearelie  paied  unto  her  during 
her  lief,  and,  after  her  deceas,  the  saied  stock  and  consld- 
eracion to  bee  paied  to  her  children,  if  she  have  anie,  and 
if  npt,  to  her  executours  or  assignes,  she  lyving  the  saied 
terme  after  my  deceas,  Provided  that  if  such  husbond  as 
she  shall  att  thend  of  the  saied  three  yeares  be  marryed 
unto,  or  att  anie  after  s,  doe  sufficientle^  assure  unto  her 
and  thissue  of  her  bodie  landes  awnswereable  to  the  por- 
cion  by  this  my  will  gyven  unto  her,  and  to  be  adjudeged  so 
by  my  executours  and  overseers,  then  my  will  ys  that  the 
saied  cl.^^-  shalbe  paied  to  such  husbond  as  shall  make 
such  assurance,  to  his  owne  use.  Item,  I  gyve  and  be- 
queath unto  my  saied  sister  Jone  xx.^^-  and  all  my  wearing 
apparrell,  to  be  paied  and  delivered  within  one  yeare  after 
my  deceas  ;  and  I  doe  will  and  devise  unto  her  the  Jiotise 
with  thappurtenaunces  in  Stratford,  wherein  she  dwell- 
eth,  for  her  naturall  lief,  under  the  yearelie  rent  of  xijA 
Item,  I  gyve  and  bequeath  unto  her  three  sonns,  William 

Harte, Hart,  and  Michaell  Harte,  fyve 

poundes  a  peece,  to  be  payed  within  one  yeare  after  my 
deceas  to  be  sett  out  for  her  within  one  yeare  after  my 
deceas  by  my  executours,  with  thadvise  and  direccions  of 
my  overseers,  for  her  best  proffitt  untill  her  marriage,  and 
then  the  same  with  the  increase  thereof  to  be  paied  unto 
her.  Item,  I  gyve  and  bequeath  unto  her  the  saied  Eliz- 
abctJi  Hall  all  my  plate  except  my  brod  silver  and  gilt 
bole,  that  I  now  have  att  the  date  of  this  my  will.  Item, 
I  gyve  and  bequeath  unto  the  poore  of  Stratford  afore- 
saied  tenn  poundes  ;  to  Mr.  Thomas  Combe  my  sword  ;  to 
Thomas  Russell  esquier  fyve  poundes,  and  to  Frauncis 
Collins  of  the  borough  of  Warr.  in  the  countie  of  Warr., 
gent.,  thirteene  poundes,  sixe  shillinges,  and  eight  pence, 
to  be  paied  within  one  yeare  after  mv  deceas.  Item,  I 
gyve  and  bequeath  to  Mr.  Richard  Tyler  thelder  Hamlet 
Sadler  xxvj.^-  viij.*^-  to  buy  him  a  ringe ;  to  IVilliam  Ray- 
noldes,  gent.,  xxvj.^-  viij.^-  to  buy  him  a  ring ;  to  my  god- 
son William  Walker  xx.^-  in  gold ;  to  Anthonye  Nashe 
gent,  xxvj.^-  viij.*^-,  and  to  Mr.  John  Nashe  xxvj.^-  viij^-  in 

62 


APPENDIX  The  Will 

gold,  and  to  my  fcUozvcs,  John  Hcmynges,  Richard  Bur- 
hagc  and  Henry  Cundell,  xxvj.^-  I'iij.^-  a  peece  buy  them 
ringes.  Item,  1  gyve,  will,  bequeath  and  devise,  unto  my 
daughter  Susanna  Hall,  for  better  enabling  of  her  to  per- 
forin e  this  niyzi'ill,and  toward cs  the  performans  thereof ,sM 
that  capitall  messuage  or  tenemente,with  thappurtenaunces, 
in  Stratford  aforesaicd,  called  the  Newe  Place,  wherein  I 
nowe  dwell,  and  twoe  messuages  or  tenementes  with 
thappurtenaunces,  scituat  lyeing  and  being  in  Henley 
streete  within  the  borough  of  Stratford  aforesaied ;  and 
all  my  barnes,  stables,  orchardes,  gardens,  landes,  tene- 
mentes and  hereditamentes  whatsoever,  scituat,  lieing  and 
being,  or  to  be  had,  receyved,  perceyved,  or  taken,  within 
the  townes,  hamlettes,  villages,  fieldes  and  groundes  of 
Stratford-upon-Avon,  Oldstratford,  Bushopton,  and  Wel- 
combe,  or  in  anie  of  them  in  the  saied  countie  of  Warr. 
And  alsoe  all  that  messuage  or  tenemente  with  thappur- 
tenaunces wherein  one  John  Robinson  dwelleth,  scituat 
lyeing  and  being  in  the  Blackfriers  in  London  nere  the 
Wardrobe  ;  and  all  other  my  landes,  tenementes,  and  here- 
ditamentes whatsoever.  To  have  and  to  hold  all  and  sin- 
guler  the  saied  premisses  with  their  appurtenaunces  unto 
the  saied  Susanna  Hall  for  and  during  the  terme  of  her 
naturall  lief,  and  after  her  deceas,  to  the  first  sonne  of  her 
bodie  lav/fuUie  yssueing,  and  to  the  heires  males  of  the 
bodie  of  the  saied  first  sonne  lawfullie  yssueinge,  and  for 
defalt  of  such  issue,  to  the  second  sonne  of  her  bodie  law- 
fullie issueinge,  and  of  to  the  heires  males  of  the  bodie  of 
the  saied  second  sonne  lawfullie  yssueinge,  and  for  defaK 
of  such  heires,  to  the  third  sonne  of  the  bodie  of  the  saied 
Susanna  lawfullie  yssueing,  and  of  the  heires  males  of 
the  bodie  of  the  saied  third  sonne  lawfullie  yssueing, 
and  for  defalt  of  such  issue,  the  same  soe  to  be  and  re- 
maine  to  the  fourth  sonne,  fyfth,  sixte,  and  seaventh 
sonnes  of  her  bodie  lawfullie  issueing  one  after  another, 
and  to  the  heires  males  of  the  bodies  of  the  saied  fourth, 
fifth,  sixte,  and  seaventh  sonnes  lawfullie  yssueino^,  in 
such  manner  as  yt  ys  before  lymitted  to  be  and  remaine 

63 


The  Will  APPENDIX       | 

to  the  first,  second  and  third  sonns  of  her  bodie,  and  to 
their  heires  males,  and  for  defalt  of  such  issue,  the  saied 
premisses  to  be  and  remaine  to  miv  sayed  neece  Hall,  and 
the  heires  males  of  her  bodie  lawfuUie  yssueing,  and  for 
defalt  of  such  issue,  to  my  daughter  Judith,  and  the  heires 
males  of  her  bodie  lawfullie  issueinge,  and  for  defalt  of 
such  issue,  to  the  right  heires  of  me  the  saied  William 
Shackspeare  for  ever.  Item,  I  gyi'C  unto  my  zincfe  my 
second  best  bed  ivith  the  furniture.  Item,  I  gyve  and 
bequeath  to  my  saied  daughter  Judith  my  broad  silver  gilt 
bole.  All  the  rest  of  my  goodes,  chattels,  leases,  plate, 
jewels,  and  household  stufTe  whatsoever,  after  my  dettes 
and  legasies  paied,  and  my  funerall  expences  discharged, 
I  gyve,  devise,  and  bequeath  to  my  sonne-in-lawe,  John 
Hall,  gent.,  and  my  daughter  Susanna,  his  wief,  whom  I 
ordaine  and  make  executours  of  this  my  last  will  and 
testament.  And  I  doe  intreat  and  appoint  the  saied 
Thomas  Russell,  esquier,  and  Frauncis  Collins,  gent.,  to 
be  overseers  hereof,  and  doe  revoke  all  former  wills,  and 
publishe  this  to  be  my  last  will  and  testament.  In  wit- 
nes  whereof  I  have  hereunto  put  my  scale  hand  the  daie 
and  yeare  first  above  written. — By  me  William  Shak- 
speare. 

Witnes  to  the  publishing  hereof, — Fra  :  CoUyns  :  Julius 
Shawe ;  John  Robinson ;  Hamnet  Sadler ;  Robert  Whatt- 
cott. 


APPENDIX 

V. 

"  De  Shakespeare  nostrati  "  (Of  Shakespeare,  our 
fellow-countryman),  from  Ben  Jonson's  "  Timber,  or  Dis- 
coveries, being  Observations  on  Men  and  Manners,'' 
printed  1641 ;  but  the  entry  zvas  probably  zvritten  about 
1620  {cp.  Ben  Jonson's  "  Timber"  in  the  "  Temple  Clas- 
sics''; and  Azotes  to  "Julius  Ccusar"). 

I  remember  the  players  have  often  mentioned  it  as  an 
honour  to  Shakespeare,  that  in  his  writing  (whatsoever 
he  penned)  he  never  blotted  out  a  line.  My  answer  hath 
been,  "  Would  he  had  blotted  a  thousand,"  which  they 
thought  a  malevolent  speech.  I  had  not  told  posterity 
this  but  for  their  ignorance  w^ho  chose  that  circumstance 
to  commend  their  friend  by  wherein  he  most  faulted  ;  and 
to  justify  mine  own  candour,  for  I  loved  the  man,  and  do 
honour  his  memory  on  this  side  idolatry  as  much  as  any. 
He  w^as,  indeed,  honest,  and  of  an  open  and  free  nature ; 
had  an  excellent  phantasy,  brave  notions,  and  gentle  ex- 
pressions, wdierein  he  flowed  with  that  facility  that  some- 
times it  was  necessary  he  should  be  stopped.  "  SufHami- 
iiandus  erat,"  '  as  Augustus  said  of  Haterius.  His  wdt  was 
in  his  own  power ;  w^ould  the  rule  of  it  had  been  so,  too ! 
Many  times  he  fell  into  those  things,  could  not  escape 
laughter,  as  when  he  said  in  the  person  of  Caesar,  one 
speaking  to  him,  "  Caesar,  thou  dost  me  wrong."  He  re- 
plied, "  Csesar  did  never  wTong  but  with  just  cause  " ; 
and  such  like,  which  were  ridiculous."  But  he  redeemed 
his  vices  with  his  virtues.  There  was  ever  more  in  him 
to  be  praised  than  to  be  pardoned. 

^  "  He  ought  to  have  been  clogged  " ;  cp.  Seneca,  Exc.  Controv. 
iv.  Pyoa:m.  7. 

'-' C/'.  Julius  Cccsar,  iii.  i.  47,  where  the  First  Folio  reads: 
Know,  Caesar  doth  not  wrong,  nor  without  cause  Will  he  be 
satisfied.     (Caesar  is  the  speaker.) 


65 


ShaKespeare — the  Man. 


ShaKespeare — the  Man. 

BY  WALTER  BAGEHOT. 

THE  greatest  of  English  poets,  it  is  often  said,  is  but  a 
name.  "  No  letter  of  his  writing,  no  record  of  his 
conversation,  no  character  of  him  drawn  with  any  fulness 
by  a  contemporary,"  have  been  extracted  by  antiquaries 
from  the  piles  of  rubbish  which  they  have  sifted.  Yet  of 
no  person  is  there  a  clearer  picture  in  the  popular  fancy. 
You  seem  to  have  known  Shakespeare — to  have  seen 
Shakespeare — to  have  been  friends  with  Shakespeare. 
We  would  attempt  a  slight  delineation  of  the  popular  idea 
which  has  been  formed,  not  from  loose  tradition  or  remote 
research,  not  from  what  some  one  says  some  one  else  said 
that  the  poet  said,  but  from  data  which  are  at  least  un- 
doubted, from  the  sure  testimony  of  his  certain  works. 

Some  extreme  sceptics,  we  know,  doubt  whether  it  is 
possible  to  deduce  anything  as  to  an  author's  character 
from  his  works.  Yet  surely  people  do  not  keep  a  tame 
steam-engine  to  write  their  books ;  and  if  those  books 
were  really  written  by  a  man,  he  must  have  been  a  man 
who  could'  write  them ;  he  must  have  had  the  thoughts 
which  they  express,  have  acquired  the  knowledge  they 
contain,  have  possessed  the  style  in  which  we  read  them. 
The  difficulty  is  a  defect  of  the  critics.  A  person  who 
knows  nothing  of  an  author  he  has  read,  will  not  know 
much  of  an  author  whom  he  has  seen. 

First  of  all,  it  may  be  said  that  Shakespeare's  works 
could  only  be  produced  by  a  first-rate  imagination  work- 
ing on  a  first-rate  experience.  It  is  often  difficult  to 
make  out  whether  the  author  of  a  poetic  creation  is  draw- 
ing from  fancy,  or  drawing  from  experience ;   but  for  art 


SHAKESPEARE. 

on  a  certain  scale,  the  two  must  concur.  Out  of  nothing, 
nothing  can  be  created.  Some  plastic  power  is  required, 
however  great  may  be  the  material.  And  when  such 
works  as  Hamlet  and  Othello,  still  more,  when  both 
they  and  others  not  unequal,  have  been  created  by  a  single 
mind,  it  may  be  fairly  said,  that  not  only  a  great  imagina- 
tion but  a  full  conversancy  with  the  world  was  necessary 
to  their  production.  The  whole  powers  of  man  under  the 
most  favourable  circumstances,  are  not  too  great  for  such 
an  effort.  We  may  assume  that  Shakespeare  had  a  great 
experience. 

To  a  great  experience  one  thing  is  essential,  an  expe- 
riencing nature.  It  is  not  enough  to  have  opportunity,  it 
is  essential  to  feel  it.  Some  occasions  come  to  all  men ; 
but  to  many  they  are  of  little  use,  and  to  some  they  are 
none.  \Miat,  for  example,  has  experience  done  for  the 
distinguished  Frenchman"^',  the  name  of  whose  essay  is  pre- 
fixed to  this  paper?  M.  Guizot  is  the  same  man  that  he 
was  in  1820,  or,  we  believe,  as  he  was  in  18 14.  Take  up 
one  of  his  lectures,  published  before  he  was  a  practical 
statesman ;  you  will  be  struck  with  the  width  of  view,  the 
amplitude  and  the  solidity  of  the  reflections  ;  you  will  be 
amazed  that  a  mere  literary  teacher  could  produce  any- 
thing so  wise ;  but  take  up  afterwards  an  essay  published 
since  his  fall — and  you  will  be  amazed  to  find  no  more. 
Napoleon  the  First  is  come  and  gone — the  Bourbons  of 
the  old  rcs:ime  have  come  and  gone — the  Bourbons  of  the 
new  regime  have  had  their  turn.  M.  Guizot  has  been  first 
minister  of  a  citizen  king ;  he  has  led  a  great  party ;  he 
has  pronounced  many  a  great  discoiirs  that  was  well  re- 
ceived by  the  second  elective  assembly  in  the  world.  But 
there  is  no  trace  of  this  in  his  writings.  No  one  would 
guess  from  them  that  their  author  had  ever  left  the  pro- 
fessor's chair.  It  is  the  same,  we  are  told,  with  small 
matters :  when  M.  Guizot  walks  the  street,  he  seems  to 
see  nothing ;  the  head  is  thrown  back,  the  eye  fixed,  and 
the  mouth  working.     His  mind  is  no  doubt  at  work,  but 

*  M.  Guizot. 


THE  MAN 

it  is  not  stirred  by  what  is  external.  Perhaps  it  is  the 
internal  activity  of  mind  that  overmasters  the  perceptive 
power.  Anyhow  there  might  have  been  an  emeute  in  the 
street  and  he  would  not  have  known  it ;  there  have  been 
revolutions  in  his  life,  and  he  is  scarcely  the  wiser. 
Among  the  most  frivolous  and  fickle  of  civilised  nations 
he  is  alone.  They  pass  from  the  game  of  war  to  the  game 
of  peace,  from  the  game  of  science  to  the  game  of  art, 
from  the  game  of  liberty  to  the  game  of  slavery,  from  the 
game  of  slavery  to  the  game  of  license ;  he  stands  like  a 
schoolmaster  in  the  playground,  without  sport  and  with- 
out pleasure,  firm  and  sullen,  slow  and  awful. 

A  man  of  this  sort  is  a  curious  mental  phenomenon. 
He  appears  to  get  early — perhaps  to  be  born  with — a 
kind  of  dry  schedule  or  catalogue  of  the  universe  ;  he  has 
a  ledger  in  his  head,  and  has  a  title  to  which  he  can  refer 
any  transaction ;  nothing  puzzles  him,  nothing  comes 
amiss  to  him,  but  he  is  not  in  the  'least  the  wiser  for 
anything.  Like  the  book-keeper,  he  has  his  heads  of  ac- 
count, and  he  knows  them,  but  he  is  no  wiser  for  the 
particular  items.  After  a  busy  day,  and  after  a  slow  day, 
after  a  few  entries,  and  after  many,  his  knowledge  is 
exactly  the  same :  take  his  opinion  of  Baron  Rothschild, 
he  will  say :  "  Yes,  he  keeps  an  account  with  us  "  ;  of 
Humphrey  Brown :  "  Yes,  we  have  that  account,  too." 
Just  so  with  the  class  of  minds  which  we  are  speaking  of, 
and  in  greater  matters.  Very  early  in  life  they  come  to 
a  certain  and  considerable  acquaintance  with  the  world  : 
they  learn  very  quickly  all  they  can  learn,  and  naturallv 
they  never,  in  any  way,  learn  any  more.  Mr.  Pitt  is,  in  this 
country,  the  type  of  the  character.  Mr.  Alison,  in  a  well- 
known  passage,  makes  it  a  matter  of  wonder  that  he  was 
fit  to  be  a  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  at  twenty-three, 
and  it  is  a  great  w^onder.  But  it  is  to  be  remembered  that 
he  was  no  more  fit  at  forty-three.  As  somebody  said,  he 
did  not  erow,  he  was  cast.  Exnerience  tauo-ht  him  noth- 
ing, and  he  did  not  believe  that  he  had  anything  to  learn. 
The  habit  of  mind  in  smaller  de"-rees  is  not  very  rare,  and 


SHAKESPEARE, 

might  be  illustrated  without  end.  Hazlitt  tells  a  story  of 
West,  the  painter,  that  is  in  point :  When  some  one  asked 
him  if  he  had  ever  been  to  Greece,  he  answered :  "  No ; 
I  have  read  a  descriptive  catalogue  of  the  principal  objects 
in  that  country,  and  I  believe  I  am  as  well  conversant  with 
them  as  if  I  had  visited  it."  No  doubt  he  was  just  as 
well  conversant,  and  so  would  be  any  doctrinaire. 

But  Shakespeare  was  not  a  man  of  this  sort.  If  he 
walked  down  a  street,  he  knew  what  was  in  that  street. 
His  mind  did  not  form  in  early  life  a  classified  list  of  all 
the  objects  in  the  universe,  and  learn  no  more  about  the 
universe  ever  after.  From  a  certain  fine  sensibility  of 
nature,  it  is  plain  that  he  took  a  keen  interest  not  only  in 
the  general  and  coarse  outlines  of  objects,  but  in  their 
minutest  particulars  and  gentlest  gradations.  You  may 
open  Shakespeare  and  find  the  clearest  proofs  of  this; 
take  the  following : — 

"  When  last  the  young  Orlando  parted  from  you 
He  left  a  promise  to  return  again 
Within  an  hour,  and  pacing  through  the  forest, 
Chewing  the  food  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancy, 
Lo,  what  befel !   he  threw  his  eye  aside, 
And  mark  what  object  did  present  itself: 
Under  an  oak,  whose  boughs  were  moss'd  with  age, 
And  high  top  bald  with  dry  antiquity, 
A  wretched  ragged  man,  o'ergrown  with  hair, 
Lay  sleeping  on  his  back:  about  his  neck 
A  green  and  gilded  snake  had  wreathed  itself, 
Who  with  her  head  nimble  in  threats  approach'd 
The  opening  of  his  mouth  ;  but  suddenly, 
Seeing  Orlando,  it  unlink'd  itself. 
And  with  indented  glides  did  slip  away 
Into  a  bush  :  under  which  bush's  shade 
A  lioness,  with  udders  all  drawn  dry, 
Lay  couching,  head  on  ground,  with  catlike  watch. 
When  that  the  sleeping  man  should  stir ;  for  'tis 
The  royal  disposition  of  that  beast 
To  prey  on  nothing  that  doth  seem  as  dead : 
This  seen,"  etc.,  etc.* 

*As  You  Like  It,  IV.  Hi. 


THE  MAN 

Or  the  more  celebrated  description  of  the  hunt : — 

"  And  when  thou  hast  on  foot  the  purblind  hare,  * 

Mark  the  poor  wretch,  to  overshoot  his  troubles, 

How  he  outruns  the  wind,  and  wath  what  care 

He  cranks  and  crosses,  with  a  thousand  doubles : 

The  many  musits  through  the  which  he  goes 

Are  like  a  labyrinth  to  amaze  his  foes. 

"  Sometime  he  runs  among  a  flock  of  sheep. 
To  make  the  cunning  hounds  mistake  their  smell, 
And  sometime  where  earth-delving  conies  keep. 
To  stop  the  loud  pursuers  in  their  yell ; 

And  sometime  sorteth  with  a  herd  of  deer; 

Danger  deviseth  shifts ;  wat  waits  on  fear : 

"  For  there  his  smell  with  others  being  mingled. 
The  hot  scent-snuffing  hounds  are  driven  to  doubt, 
Ceasing  their  clamorous  cry  till  they  have  singled 
With  much  ado  the  cold  fault  cleanly  out ; 

Then  do  they  spend  their  mouths :  Echo  replies, 
As  if  another  chase  were  in  the  skies. 

"  By  this,  poor  Wat,  far  off  upon  a  hill. 
Stands  on  his  hinder  legs  with  listening  ear. 
To  hearken  if  his  foes  pursue  him  still : 
Anon  their  loud  alarums  he  doth  hear ; 

And  now  his  grief  may  be  compared  w^ell 
To  one  sore  sick  that  hears  the  passing-bell. 

"  Then  shalt  thou  see  the  dew-bedabbled  w^retch 
Turn,  and  return,  indenting  with  the  way ; 
Each  envious  brier  his  weary  legs  doth  scratch. 
Each  shadow  makes  him  stop,  each  murmur  stay 
For  misery  is  trodden  on  by  many, 
And  being  low  never  relieved  by  any."  * 

It  is  absurd,  by  the  way,  to  say  we  know  nothing  about 
the  man  who  wrote  that ;'  we  know  that  he  had  been  after 
a  hare.  It  is  idle  to  allege  that  mere  imagination  would 
tell  him  that  a  hare  is  apt  to  run  among  aflock  of  sheep, 

•  *  Venus  and  Adonis. 
5 


SHAKESPEARE. 

or  that  its  so  doing  disconcerts  the  scent  of  hounds.  But 
no  single  citation  really  represents  the  power  of  the  argu- 
ment. %et  descriptions  may  be  manufactured  to  order, 
and  it  does  not  follow  that  even  the  most  accurate  or  suc- 
cessful of  them  was  really  the  result  of  a  thorough  and 
habitual  knowledge  of  the  object.  A  man  who  knows 
little  of  Nature  may  write  one  excellent  delineation,  as  a 
poor  man  may  have  one  bright  guinea.  Real  opulence 
consists  in  having  many.  What  truly  indicates  excellent 
knowledge,  is  the  habit  of  constant,  sudden,  and  almost 
unconscious  allusion,  which  implies  familiarity,  for  it  can 
arise  from  that  alone, — and  this  very  species  of  incidental, 
casual,  and  perpetual  reference  to  "  the  mighty  world  of 
eye  and  ear,"'^  is  the  particular  characteristic  of  Shake- 
speare. 

In  this  respect  Shakespeare  had  the  advantage  of  one 
whom,  in  many  points,  he  much  resembled — Sir  Walter 
Scott.  For  a  great  poet,  the  organization  of  the  latter 
was  very  blunt ;  he  had  no  sense  of  smell,  little  sense  of 
taste,  almost  no  ear  for  music  (he  knew  a  few,  perhaps 
three,  Scotch  tunes,  which  he  avowed  that  he  had  learnt 
in  sixty  years,  by  hard  labour  and  mental  association), 
and  not  much  turn  for  the  minutiae  of  Nature  in  any  way. 
The  effect  of  this  may  be  seen  in  some  of  the  best  descrip- 
tive passages  of  his  poetry,  and  we  will  not  deny  that  it 
does  (although  proceeding  from  a  sensuous  defect),  in  a 
certain  degree,  add  to  their  popularity.  He  deals  with 
the  main  outlines  and  great  points  of  Nature,  never  at- 
tends to  any  others,  and  in  this  respect  he  suits  the  com- 
prehension and  knowledge  of  many  who  know  only  those 
essential  and  considerable  outlines.  Young  people,  espe- 
cially, who  like  big  things,  are  taken  with  Scott,  and 
bored  by  Wordsworth,  who  knew  too  much.  And  after 
all,  the  two  poets  are  in  proper  harmony,  each  with  his 
own  scenery.  Of  all  beautiful  scenery  the  Scotch  is  the 
roughest  and  barest,  as  the  English  is  the  most  complex 
and  cultivated.     What  a  difference  is  there  between  the 

*  Wordsworth :  Tintern  Abbey. 

6 


THE  MAN 

minute  and  finished  delicacy  of  Rydal  Water  and  the 
rouo^h  simpHcity  of  Loch  Katrine!  It  is  the  beauty  of 
civihsation  beside  the  beauty  of  barbarism.  Scott  has 
himself  pointed  out  the  effect  of  this  on  arts  and  artists. 

"  Or  see  yon  weather-beaten  hind, 
Whose  sluggish  herds  before  him  wind, 
Whose  tatter'd  plaid  and  rugged  cheek 
His  northern  clime  and  kindred  speak  ; 
Through  England's  laughing  meads  he  goes, 
And  England's  wealth  around  him  flows; 
Ask,  if  it  would  content  him  well, 
At  ease  in  those  gay  plains  to  dwell, 
Where  hedge-rows  spread  a  verdant  screen, 
And  spires  and  forests  intervene, 
And  the  neat  cottage  peeps  between? 
No !  not  for  these  would  he  exchange 
His  dark  Lochaber's  boundless  range : 
Not  for  fair  Devon's  meads  forsake 
Bennevis  grey,  and  Garry's  lake. 

"  Thus  while  I  ape  the  measure  wild 
Of  tales  that  charm'd  me  yet  a  child, 
Rude  though  they  be,  still  with  the  chime. 
Return  the  thoughts  of  early  time ; 
And  feelings,  roused  in  life's  first  day, 
Glow  in  the  line,  and  prompt  the  lay. 
Then  rise  those  crags,  that  mountain  tower, 
Which  charm'd  my  fancy's  wakening  hour. 
Though  no  broad  river  swept  along, 
To  claim,  perchance,  heroic  song ; 
Though  sigh'd  no  groves  in  summer  gale. 
To  prompt  of  love  a  softer  tale ; 
Though  scarce  a  puny  streamlet's  speed 
Claim'd  homage  from  a  shepherd's  reed; 
Yet  was  poetic  impulse  given. 
By  the  green  hill  and  clear  blue  heaven. 
It  was  a  barren  scene,  and  wild. 
Where  naked  cliffs  were  rudely  piled; 
But  ever  and  anon  between. 
Lay  velvet  tufts  of  loveliest  green ; 
And  well  the  lonely  infant  knew 


SHAKESPEARE, 

Recesses  where  the  wall-flower  grew 
And  honeysuckle  loved  to  crawl 
Up  the  low  crag  and  ruin'd  wall. 

"  For  me,  thus  nurtured,  dost  thou  ask 
The  classic  poet's  well-conned  task? 
Nay,  Erskine,  nay — On  the  wild  hill 
Let  the  wild  heath-bell  flourish  still ; 
Cherish  the  tulip,  prune  the  vine, 
But  freely  let  the  woodbine  twine, 
And  leave  untrimm'd  the  eglantine : 
Nay,  my  friend,  nay — Since  oft  thy  praise 
Hath  given  fresh  vigour  to  my  lays ; 
Since  oft  thy  judgement  could  refine 
My  flattened  thought,  or  cumbrous  line; 
Still  kind,  as  is  thy  wont,  attend. 
And  in  the  minstrel  spare  the  friend. 
Though  wild  as  cloud,  as  stream,  as  gale. 
Flow  forth,  flow  unrestrain'd,  my  Tale."* 

And  this  is  wise,  for  there  is  beauty  in  the  North  as  well 
as  in  the  South.  Only  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  the 
beauty  of  the  Trossachs  is  the  result  of  but  a  few  elements 
— say  birch  and  brushwood,  rough  hills  and  narrow  dells, 
mucli  heather  and  many  stones — while  the  beauty  of  Eng- 
land is  one  thing  in  one  district  and  one  in  another ;  is 
here  the  combination  of  one  set  of  qualities,  and  there 
the  harmony  of  opposite  ones,  and  is  everywhere  made 
up  of  many  details  and  delicate  refinements ;  all  which 
require  an  exquisite  delicacy  of  perceptive  organisation, 
a  seeing  eye,  a  minutely  hearing  ear.  Scott's  is  the  strong 
admiration  of  a  rough  mind ;  Shakespeare's,  the  nice 
minuteness  of  a  susceptible  one. 

A  perfectly  poetic  appreciation  of  nature  contains  two 
elements,  a  knowledge  of  facts,  and  a  sensibility  to 
charms.  Everybody  who  may  have  to  speak  to  some 
naturalists  will  be  well  aware  how  widely  the  two  may 
be  separated.  He  will  have  seen  that  a  man  may  study 
butterflies  and  forget  that  they  are  beautiful,  or  be  perfect 

*  Marmion  :  Introduction  to  Canto  iii. 

8 


THE  MAN 

in  the  "  Lunar  theory  "  without  knowing  what  most  peo- 
ple mean  by  the  moon.  Generally  such  people  prefer  the 
stupid  parts  of  nature — worms  and  Cochin-China  fowls. 
But  Shakespeare  was  not  obtuse.     The  lines — 

"  Daffodils 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty ;  violets  dim, 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes 
Or  Cytherea's  breath."* 

seem  to  show  that  he  knew  those  feelings  of  youth,  to 
which  beauty  is  more  than  a  religion. 

In  his  mode  of  delineating  natural  objects  Shakespeare 
is  curiously  opposed  to  Milton.  The  latter,  who  was  still 
by  temperament,  and  a  schoolmaster  by  trade,  selects  a 
beautiful  object,  puts  it  straight  out  before  him  and  his 
readers,  and  accumulates  upon  it  all  the  learned  imagery 
of  a  thousand  years ;  Shakespeare  glances  at  it  and  says 
something  of  his  own.  It  is  not  our  intention  to  say  that, 
as  a  describer  of  the  external  world,  Milton  is  inferior ; 
in  set  description  we  rather  think  that  he  is  the  better. 
We  only  wish  to  contrast  the  mode  in  which  the  deline- 
ation is  effected.  The  one  is  like  an  artist  who  dashes 
off  any  number  of  picturesque  sketches  at  any  moment; 
the  other  like  a  man  who  has  lived  at  Rome,  has  under- 
gone a  thorough  training,  and  by  deliberate  and  conscious 
effort,  after  a  long  study  of  the  best  masters,  can  produce 
a  few  great  pictures.  Milton,  accordingly,  as  has  been 
often  remarked,  is  careful  in  the  choice  of  his  subjects ; 
he  knows  too  well  the  value  of  his  labour  to  be  very  ready 
to  squander  it ;  Shakespeare,  on  the  contrary,  describes 
anything  that  comes  to  hand,  for  he  is  prepared  for  it 
whatever  it  may  be,  and  what  he  paints  he  paints  without 
effort.  Compare  any  passage  from  Shakespeare — for 
example,  those  quoted  before — and  the  following  passage 
from  Milton: — 

*  The  Winter's  Tale,  IV.  iv.- 

9 


SHAKESPEARE. 

"  Southward  through  Eden  went  a  river  large^ 
Nor  changed  his  course,  but  through  the  shaggy  hill 
Pass'd  underneath  ingulf'd,  for  God  had  thrown 
That  mountain  as  His  garden  mound  high  raised 
Upon  the  rapid  current,  which  through  veins 
Of  porous  earth  with  kindly  thirst  up-drawn, 
Rose  a  fresh  fountain,  and  with  many  a  rill 
Water'd  the  garden ;  thence  united  fell 
Down  the  steep  glade,  and  met  the  nether  flood, 
Which  from  his  darksome  passage  now  appears, 
And  now  divided  into  four  main  streams, 
Runs  diverse,  wandering  many  a  famous  realm 
And  country,  whereof  here  needs  no  account ; 
But  rather  to  tell  how,  if  Art  could  tell. 
How  from  that  sapphire  fount  the  crisped  brooks 
Rolling  on  orient  pearl  and  sands  of  gold, 
With  mazy  error  under  pendant  shades 
Ran  nectar,  visiting  each  plant,  and  fed 
Flowers  worthy  of  Paradise,  which  not  nice  Art 
In  beds  and  curious  knots,  but  Nature  boon 
Pour'd  forth  profuse  on  hill,  and  dale,  and  plain, 
Both  where  the  morning  sun  first  warmly  smote 
The  open  field,  and  where  the  unpierced  shade 
Imbrown'd  the  noontide  bowers.     Thus  was  this  place 
A  happy  rural  seat  of  various  view ; 
Groves  whose  rich  trees  wept  odorous  gums  and  balm. 
Others  whose  fruit,  burnish'd  with  golden  rind, 
Hung  amiable   (Hesperian  fables  true. 
If  true,  here  only),  and  of  delicious  taste ; 
Betwixt  them  lawns  or  level  downs,  and  flocks 
Grazing  the  tender  herb,  were  interposed. 
Or  palmy  hillock  ;  or  the  flowery  lap 
Of  some  irriguous  valley  spread  her  store, 
Flowers  of  all  hue,  and  without  thorn  the  rose."* 

Why,  you  could  draw  a  map  of  it.  It  is  not  "  Nature 
boon,"  but  ''nice  art  in  beds  and  curious  knots";  it  is 
exactly  the  old  (and  excellent)  style  of  artificial  garden- 
ing, by  which  any  place  can  be  turned  into  trim  hedge- 
rows, and  stiff  borders,  and  comfortable  shades  ;  but  there 

*  Paradise  Lost.  Book  IV 
10 


THE  MAN 

are  no  straight  lines  in  Nature  or  Shakespeare.  Perhaps 
the  contrast  may  be  accounted  for  by  the  way  in  which 
the  two  poets  acquired  their  knowledge  of  scenes  and 
scenery.  We  think  we  demonstrated  before  that  Shake- 
speare was  a  sportsman,  but  if  there  be  still  a  sceptic  or  a 
dissentient,  let  him  read  the  following  remarks  on  dogs  : — 

"  My  hounds  are  bred  out  of  the  Spartan  kind, 
So  flew'd,  so  sanded ;  and  their  heads  are  hung 
With  ears  that  sweep  away  the  mornhig  dew ; 
Crook-knee'd.  and  dew-lapp'd  like  Thessalian  bulls; 
Slow  in  pursuit,  but  match'd  in  mouth  like  bells, 
Each  under  each.     A  cry  more  tuneable 
Was  never  holla'd  to,  nor  cheer'd  with  horn, 
In  Crete,  in  Sparta,  nor  in  Thessaly."* 

"  Judge  when  you  hear."f  It  is  evident  that  the  man 
who  wrote  this  was  a  judge  of  dogs,  was  an  out-of-door 
sporting  man,  full  of  natural  sensibility,  not  defective  in 
"  daintiness  of  ear,"  and  above  all  things,  apt  to  cast  on 
Nature  random,  sportive,  half-boyish  glances,  which  re- 
veal so  much,  and  bequeath  such  abiding  knowledge. 
Milton,  on  the  contrary,  went  out  to  see  Nature.  He  left 
a  narrow  cell,  and  the  intense  study  which  was  his  "  por- 
tion in  this  life,"  to  take  a  slow,  careful,  and  reflective 
walk.  In  his  treatise  on  education  he  has  given  us  his 
notion  of  the  way  in  which  young  people  should  be  fa- 
miliarised with  natural  objects.  "  But,"  he  remarks,  "  to 
return  to  our  institute ;  besides  these  constant  exercises 
at  home,  there  is  another  opportunity  of  gaining  pleasure 
from  pleasure  itself  abroad ;  in  those  vernal  seasons  of 
the  year  when  the  air  is  calm  and  pleasant,  it  were  an 
injury  and  suUenness  against  Nature,  not  to  go  out  and 
see  her  riches  and  partake  in  her  rejoicing  in  heaven  and 
earth.  I  should  not  therefore  be  a  persuader  to  them  of 
studying  much  in  these,  after  two  or  three  years,  that  they 
have  well  laid  their  grounds,  but  to  ride  out  in  compan- 
ies, with  prudent  and  staid  guides,  to  all  quarters  of  the 

*  A  Mid  summer- Night's  Dream,  IV.  i.  124.  Ibid.,  next  line. 

II 


SHAKESPEARE, 

land ;  learning  and  observing  all  places  of  strength,  all 
commodities  of  building  and  of  soil,  for  towns  and  tillage, 
harbours  and  ports  of  trade.  Sometimes  taking  sea  as 
far  as  our  navy,  to  learn  there  also  what  they  can  in  the 
practical  knowledge  of  sailing  and  of  sea-fight."  Fancy 
"  the  prudent  and  staid  guides."  What  a  machinery  for 
making  pedants.  Perhaps  Shakespeare  would  have 
known  that  the  conversation  would  be  in  this  sort :  "  I 
say,  Shallow,  that  mare  is  going  in  the  knees.  She  has 
never  been  the  same  since  you  larked  her  over  the  fivebar, 
while  Moleyes  was  talking  clay  and  agriculture.  I  do 
not  hate  Latin  so  much,  but  I  hate  '  argillaceous  earth  ' ; 
and  what  use  is  that  to  a  fellow  in  the  Guards,  /  should 
like  to  know  ? "  Shakespeare  had  himself  this  sort  of 
boyish  buoyancy.  He  was  not  "  one  of  the  staid  guides." 
\\'e  might  further  illustrate  it.  Yet  this  would  be  tedious 
enough,  and  we  prefer  to  go  on  and  show  what  we  mean 
by  an  experiencing  nature  in  relation  to  men  and  women, 
just  as  we  have  striven  to  indicate  what  it  is  in  relation 
f:o  horses  and  hares. 

The  reason  why  so  few  good  books  are  written,  is  that 
so  few  people  that  can  write  know  anything.  In  general 
an  author  has  always  lived  in  a  room,  has  read  books,  has 
cultivated  science,  is  acquainted  with  the  style  and  senti- 
ments of  the  best  authors,  but  he  is  out  of  the  way  of 
employing  his  own  eyes  and  ears.  He  has  nothing  to 
hear  and  nothing  to  see.  His  life  is  a  vacuum.  The 
mental  habits  of  Robert  Southey,  which  about  a  year  ago 
were  so  extensively  praised  in  the  public  journals,  are  the 
type  of  literary  existence,  just  as  the  praise  bestowed  on 
them  shows  the  admiration  excited  by  them  among  lit- 
erary people.  He  wrote  poetry  (as  if  anybody  could) 
before  breakfast ;  he  read  during  breakfast.  He  wrote 
history  until  dinner;  he  corrected  proof-sheets  between 
dinner  and  tea ;  he  wrote  an  essay  for  the  Quarterly  after- 
wards ;  and  after  supper,  by  way  of  relaxation,  composed 
the  "  Doctor  " — a  lengthy  and  elaborate  jest.  Now,  what 
can  any  one  think  of  such  a  life — except  how  clearly  it 

12 


THE  MAN 

shows  that  the  habits  best  fitted  for  communicating  infor- 
mation, formed  with  the  best  care,  and  daily  regulated  by 
the  best  motives,  are  exactly  the  habits  which  are  likely 
to  afford  a  man  the  least  information  to  communicate. 
Southey  had  no  events,  no  experiences.  His  wife  kept 
house  and  allowed  him  pocket-money,  just  as  if  he  had 
been  a  German  professor  devoted  to  accents,  tobacco,  and 
the  dates  of  Horace's  amours.  And  it  is  pitiable  to  think 
that  so  meritorious  a  life  was  only  made  endurable  by  a 
painful  delusion.  He  thought  that  day  by  day,  and  hour 
by  hour,  he  was  accumulating  stores  for  the  instruction 
and  entertainment  of  a  long  posterity.  His  epics  were  to 
be  in  the  hands  of  all  men,  and  his  history  of  Brazil,  the 
"  Herodotus  of  the  South  American  Republics."  As  if 
his  epics  were  not  already  dead,  and  as  if  the  people  who 
now  cheat  at  Valparaiso  care  a  real  who  it  was  that 
cheated  those  before  them.  Yet  it  was  only  by  a  con- 
viction like  this  that  an  industrious  and  '-.aligraphic  man 
(for  such  was  Robert  Southey),  who  might  have  earned 
money  as  a  clerk,  worked  all  his  days  for  half  a  clerk's 
wages,  at  occupation  much  duller  and  more  laborious. 
The  critic  in  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  lays  down  that  you 
should  ahcays  say  that  the  picture  would  have  been  better 
if  the  painter  had  taken  more  pains ;  but  in  the  case  of 
the  practised  literary  man,  you  should  often  enough  say 
that  the  writings  would  have  been  much  better  if  the 
writer  had  taken  less  pains.  He  says  he  has  devoted'  his 
life  to  the  subject — the  reply  is :  "  Then  you  have  taken 
the  best  way  to  prevent  your  making  anything  of  it." 
Instead  of  reading  studiously  what  Burgersdicius  and 
^noesidemus  said  men  were,  you  should  "have  gone  out 
yourself,  and  seen  (if  you  can  see)  what  they  are. 

After  all,  the  original  way  of  writing  boolcs  may  turn 
out  to  be  the  best.  The  first  author,  it  is  plain,  could  not 
have  taken  anything  from  books,  since  there  were  no 
books  for  him  to  copy  from  ;  he  looked  at  things  for  him- 
self. Anyhow,  the  modern  system  fails,  for  where  are 
the  amusing  books  from  voracious  students  and  habitual 

13 


SHAKESPEARE. 

writers?  Not  that  we  mean  exactly  to  say  that  an  au- 
thor's hard  reading  is  the  cause  of  his  writing  that  which 
is  hard  to  read.  This  would  be  near  the  truth,  but  not 
quite  the  truth.  The  two  are  concomitant  effects  of  a 
certain  defective  nature.  Slow  men  read  well,  but  write 
ill.  The  abstracted  habit,  the  want  of  keen  exterior  in- 
terests, the  aloofness  of  mind  from  what  is  next  it,  all 
tend  to  make  a  man  feel  an  exciting  curiosity  and  interest 
about  remote  literary  events,  the  toil  of  scholastic  logi- 
cians, and  the  petty  feuds  of  Argos  and  Lacedsemon  ;  but 
they  also  tend  to  make  a  man  very  unable  to  explain  and 
elucidate  those  exploits  for  the  benefit  of  his  fellows. 
What  separates  the  author  from  his  readers,  will  make  it 
proportionably  difficult  for  him  to  explain  himself  to  them. 
Secluded  habits  do  not  tend  to  eloquence ;  and  the  indif- 
ferent apathy  which  is  so  common  in  studious  persons  is 
exceedingly  unfavourable  to  the  liveliness  of  narration 
and  illustration  which  is  needed  for  excellence  in  even 
the  simpler  sorts  of  writing.  Moreover,  in  general  it  will 
perhaps  be  found  that  persons  devoted  to  mere  literature 
commonly  become  devoted  to  mere  idleness.  They  wish 
to  produce  a  great  work,  but  they  find  they  cannot.  Hav- 
ing relinquished  everything  to  devote  themselves  to  this, 
they  conclude  on  trial  that  this  is  impossible.  They  wish 
to  write,  but  nothing  occurs  to  them.  Therefore  they 
write  nothing,  and  they  do  nothing.  As  has  been  said, 
they  have  nothing  to  do.  Their  life  has  no  events,  unless 
they  are  very  poor.  With  any  decent  means  of  subsist- 
ence, they  have  nothing  to  rouse  them  from  an  indolent 
and  musing  dream.  A  merchant  must  meet  his  bills,  or  he 
is  civilly  dead  and  uncivilly  remembered.  But  a  student 
may  know  nothing  of  time  and  be  too  lazy  to  wind  up  his 
watch.  In  the  retired  citizen's  journal  in  Addison's  Spec- 
tator, we  have  the  type  of  this  way  of  spending  the  time : 
Mem.  Morning  8  to  9,  "  Went  into  the  parlour  and  tied 
on  my  shoe-buckles."  This  is  the  sort  of  life  for  which 
studious  men  commonly  relinquish  the  pursuits  of  busi- 
ness and  the  society  of  their  fellows. 

14 


k 


THE  MAN 

Yet  all  literary  men  are  not  tedious,  neither  are  they  all 
slow.  One  great  example  even  these  most  tedious  times 
have  luckily  given  us,  to  show  us  what  may  be  done  by  a 
really  great  man  even  now,  the  same  who  before  served 
as  an  illustration — Sir  Walter  Scott.  In  his  lifetime  peo- 
ple denied  he  was  a  poet,  but  nobody  said  that  he  was 
not  "  the  best  fellow  "  in  Scotland — perhaps  that  was  not 
much — or  that  he  had  not  more  wise  joviality,  more  liv- 
ing talk,  more  graphic  humour,  than  any  man  in  Great 
Britain.  "  Wherever  we  went,"  said  Mr.  Wordsworth, 
"  we  found  his  name  acted  as  an  open  sesame,  and  I  be- 
lieve that  in  the  character  of  the  sheriff's  friends,  we 
might  have  counted  on  a  hearty  welcome  under  any  roof 
in  the  border  country."  Never  neglect  to  talk  to  people 
with  whom  you  are  casually  thrown,  was  his  precept,  and 
he  exemplified  the  maxim  himself.  "  I  believe,"  observes 
his  biographer,  "  that  Scott  has  somewhere  expressed  in 
print  his  satisfaction,  that  amid  all  the  changes  of  our 
manners,  the  ancient  freedom  of  personal  intercourse  may 
still  be  indulged  between  a  master  and  an  out-of-door 
servant ;  but  in  truth  he  kept  by  the  old  fashion,  even 
with  domestic  servants,  to  an  extent  which  I  have  hardly 
ever  seen  practised  by  any  other  gentleman.  He  con- 
versed with  his  coachman  if  he  sat  by  him,  as  he  often  did, 
on  the  box — with  his  footman,  if  he  chanced  to  be  in  the 
rumble.  Indeed,  he  did  not  confine  his  humanity  to  his 
own  people ;  any  steady-going  servant  of  a  friend  of  his 
was  soon  considered  as  a  sort  of  friend  too,  and  was  sure 
to  have  a  kind  little  colloquy  to  himself  at  coming  or 
going."  ''  Sir  \\'alter  speaks  to  every  man  as  if  he  was 
his  blood  relation,"  was  the  expressive  comment  of  one 
of  these  dependants.  It  was  in  this  way  that  he  acquired 
the  great  knowledge  of  various  kinds  of  men,  which  is  so 
clear  and  conspicuous  in  his  writings ;  nor  could  that 
knowledge  have  been  acquired  on  easier  terms,  or  in  any 
other  way.  No  man  could  describe  the  character  of  Dan- 
die  Dinmont,  without  having  been  in  Lidderdale.  What- 
ever has  been  once  in  a  book  may  be  put  into  a  book 

15 


SHAKESPEARE. 

again ;  but  an  original  character,  taken  at  first  hand  from 
the  sheepwalks  and  from  Nature,  must  be  seen  in  order 
to  be  known.  A  man,  to  be  able  to  describe — indeed,  to 
be  able  to  know — various  people  in  life,  must  be  able  at 
sight  to  comprehend  their  essential  features,  to  know  how 
they  shade  one  into  another,  to  see  how  they  diversify 
the  common  uniformity  of  civiHsed  life.  Nor  does  this 
involve  simply  intellectual  or  even  imaginative  prerequi- 
sites, still  less  will  it  be  facilitated  by  exquisite  senses  or 
subtle  fancy.  What  is  wanted  is,  to  be  able  to  appreciate 
mere  clay — which  mere  mind  never  will.  If  you  will  de- 
scribe the  people, — nay,  if  you  will  write  for  the  people, 
you  must  be  one  of  the  people.  You  must  have  led  their 
life,  and  must  wish  to  lead  their  life.  However  strong 
in  any  poet  may  be  the  higher  qualities  of  abstract  thought 
or  conceiving  fancy,  unless  he  can  actually  sympathise 
with  those  around  him,  he  can  never  describe  those  around 
him.  Any  attempt  to  produce  a  likeness  of  what  is  not 
really  liked  by  the  person  who  is  describing  it,  will  end 
in  the  creation  of  what  may  be  correct,  but  is  not  living — 
of  what  may  be  artistic,  but  is  likewise  artificial. 

Perhaps  this  is  the  defect  of  the  works  of  the  greatest 
dramatic  genius  of  recent  times— ^Goethe.  His  works  are 
too  much  in  the  nature  of  literai'y  studies ;  the  mind  is 
often  deeply  impressed  by  them,  but  one  doubts  if  the 
author  was.  He  saw  them  as  he  saw  the  houses  of  Wei- 
mar and  the  plants  in  the  act  of  metamorphosis.  He  had 
a  clear  perception  of  their  fixed  condition  and  their  suc- 
cessive transitions,  but  he  did  not  really  (if  we  may  so 
speak)  comprehend  their  motive  power.  So  to  say,  he 
appreciated  their  life,  but  not  their  liveliness.  Niebuhr, 
as  is  well  known,  comipared  the  most  elaborate  of  Goethe's 
works — the  novel  VVUhehn  Meister — to  a  menagerie  of 
tame  animals,  meaning  thereby,  as  we  believe,  to  express 
much  the  same  distinction.  He  felt  that  there  was  a 
deficiency  in  mere  vigour  and  rude  energv.  We  have  a 
long  train  and  no  engine — a  great  accumulation  of  excel- 
lent  matter,   arranged  and  ordered  with   masterly  skill, 

i6 


THE  MAN 

but  not  animated  with  over-buoyant  and  unbounded  play. 
And  we  trace  this  not  to  a  defect  in  imaginative  power,  a 
defect  which  it  would  be  a  simple  absurdity  to  impute  to 
Goethe,  but  to  the  tone  of  his  character  and  the  habits  oi 
his  mind.  He  moved  hither  and  thither  through  life,  but 
he  was  always  a  man  apart.  He  mixed  with  unnumbered 
kinds  of  men,  with  courts  and  academies,  students  and 
women,  camps  and  artists,  but  everywhere  he  was  with 
them,  yet  not  of  them.  In  every  scene  he  was  there,  and 
he  made  it  clear  that  he  was  there  with  a  reserve  and  as 
a  stranger.  He  went  there  to  experience.  As  a  man  of 
universal  culture  and  well  skilled  in  the  order  and  classi- 
fication of  human  life,  the  fact  of  any  one  class  or  order 
being  beyond  his  reach  or  comprehension  seemed  an  ab- 
surdity, and  it  was  an  absurdity.  He  thought  that  he  was 
equal  to  moving  in  any  description  of  society,  and  he  was 
equal  to  it ;  but  then  on  that  exact  account  he  was  ab- 
sorbed in  none.  There  were  none  of  surpassing  and  im- 
measurably preponderating  captivation.  No  scene  and 
no  subject  were  to  him  what  Scotland  and  Scotch  nature 
were  to  Sir  Walter  Scott.  "  If  I  did  not  see  the  heather 
once  a  year,  I  should  die,"  said  the  latter ;  but  Goethe 
would  have  lived  without  it,  and  it  would  not  have  cost 
him  much  trouble.  In  every  one  of  Scott's  novels  there 
is  always  the  spirit  of  the  old  moss  trooper — the  flavour 
of  the  ancient  border ;  there  is  the  intense  sympathy  which 
enters  into  the  most  living  moments  of  the  most  living 
characters — the  lively  energy  which  he  conies  the  energy 
of  the  most  vigorous  persons  delineated.  Marmion  was 
"  written  "  while  he  was  galloping  on  horseback.  It  reads 
as  if  it  were  so. 

Now  it  appears  that  Shakespeare  not  only  had  that 
various  commerce  with,  and  experience  of  men,  which 
was  common  both  to  Goethe  and  to  Scott,  but  also  that 
he  agrees  with  the  latter  rather  than  with  the  former  in 
the  kind  and  species  of  that  experience.  He  was  not 
merely  with  men, but  of  men  ;  he  was  not  a  ''thing  apart,'"* 

*  Byron  :  Don  Juan,  I.  cxciv. 
17 


SHAKESPEARE. 

with  a  clear  intuition  of  what  was  in  those  around  him ; 
he  had  in  his  own  nature  the  germs  and  tendencies  of  the 
very  elements  that  he  described.  He  knew  what  was  in 
man,  for  he  felt  it  in  himself.  Throughout  all  his  wri- 
tings yooi  see  an  amazing  sympathy  with  common  people, 
rather  an  excessive  tendency  to  dwell  on  the  common  fea- 
tures of  ordinary  lives.  You  feel  that  common  people 
could  have  been  cut  out  of  him,  but  not  without  his  feeling 
it ;  for  it  would  have  deprived  him  of  a  very  favourite 
subject — of  a  portion  of  his  ideas  to  which  he  habitually 
recurred. 

Leon.  What  would  you  with  me.  honest  neighbour? 

Dog.  Marry,  sir,  I  would  have  some  confidence  with  you,  that 

decerns  you  nearly. 
Leon.  Brief,  I  pray  you  ;  for  you  see  it  is  a  busy  time  with  me. 
Dog.  Marry,  this  it  is.  sir. 
I'^erg.  Yes,  in  truth  it  is,  sir. 
Leon.  What  is  it,  my  good  friends? 
Dog.  Goodman  Verges,  sir.  speaks  a  little  off  the  matter :  an 

old  man.  sir,  and  his  wits  are  not  so  blunt  as,  God  help.  I 

would  desire  they  were;  but,  in  faith,  honest  as  the  skin 

between  his  brows. 
Verg.  Yes,  I  thank  God  I  am  as  honest  as  any  man  kving  that 

is  an  old  man  and  no  honester  than  I. 
Dog.  Comparisons  are  odorous:  palahras,  neighbour  Verges. 
Leon.  Neighbours,  you  are  tedious. 
Dog.  It  pleases  j'our  worship  to  say  so.  but  we  are  the  poor 

duke's  officers ;  but  truly,  for  mine  own  part,  if  I  were  as 

tedious  as  a  king,  I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  bestow  it  all 

of  your  worship. 


Leon.  I  would  fain  know  what  you  have  to  say. 

Verg.  Marry,  sir,  our  watch  to-night,  excepting  your  wor- 
ship's presence,  ha'  ta'en  a  couple  of  as  arrant  knaves  as 
any  in  Messina. 

Dog.  A  good  old  man.  sir :  he  will  be  talking :  as  they  say, 
When  the  age  is  in.  the  wit  is  out :  God  help  us !  it  is  a 
world  to  see.  Well  said,  i'  faith,  neighbour  Verges  :  well. 
God  's  a  good  man ;  an  two  men  ride  of  a  horse,  one  must 

i8 


THE  MAN 

ride  behind.  An  honest  soul,  i'  faith,  sir ;  by  my  troth  he 
is,  as  ever  broke  bread;  but  God  is  to  be  worshipped;  all 
men  are  not  alike ;  alas,  good  neighbour ! 

Leon.  Indeed,  neighbour,  he  comes  too  short  of  you. 

Dog.  Gifts  that  God  gives. — etc.,  etc.* 

Stafford.  Ay,  sir.  • 

Cade.  By  her  he  had  two  children  at  one  birth. 

Bro.  That 's  false. 

Cade.  Ay,  there's  the  question;  but  I  say,  'tis  true:    ' 

The  elder  of  them,  being  put  to  nurse, 

Was  by  a  beggar-woman  stolen  away ; 

And,  ignorant  of  his  birth  and  parentage, 

Became  a  bricklayer  when  he  came  to  age : 

His  son  am  I;  deny  it,  if  you  can. 
Dick.  Nay,  'tis  too  true ;  therefore  he  shall  be  king. 
Smith.  Sir,  he  made  a  chimney  in  my  father's  house,  and  the 

bricks  are  alive  at  this  day  to  testify  it ;  therefore  deny  it ; 

not.f 

Shakespeare  was  too  wise  not  to  know  that  for  most 
of  the  purposes  of  human  life  stupidity  is  a  most  valuable 
element.  lie  had  nothing  of  the  impatience  which  sharp 
logical  narrow  minds  habitually  feel  when  they  come 
across  those  who  do  not  apprehend  their  quick  and  precise 
deductions.  Xo  doubt  he  talked  to  the  stupid  players, 
to  the  stupid  door-keeper,  to  the  property  man,  who  con- 
siders paste  jewels  "  very  preferable,  besides  the  ex- 
pense " — talked  with  the  stupid  apprentices  of  stupid 
Fleet  Street,  and  had  much  pleasure  in  ascertaining  what 
was  their  notion  of  King  Lear.  In  his  comprehensive 
mind  it  was  enough  if  every  man  hitched  well  into  his  own 
place  in  human  life.  If  every  one  were  logical  and  liter- 
ary, how  would  there  be  scavengers,  or  watchmen,  or 
caulkers,  or  coopers  ?  Narrow  minds  will  be  ''  subdued 
to  what  "  they  "  work  in."  The  "  dyer's  hand  "J  will  not 
more  clearly  carry  oiT  its  tint,  nor  will  what  is  moulded 
more  precisely  indicate  the  confines  of  tlie  mould.  A 
patient  sympathy,  a  kindly  fellow-feeling  for  the  narrow 

*  Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  III.  v.  t2  King-  Henry  VI.,  IV.  ii. 

\  Shakespeare  :  Sonnets,  CXI. 

19 


SHAKESPEARE, 

intelligence  necessarily  induced  by  narrow  circumstances 
— a  narrowness  which,  in  some  degrees,  seems  to  be  in- 
evitable, and  is  perhaps  more  serviceable  than  most  things 
to  the  wise  conduct  of  life — this,  though  quick  and  half- 
bred  minds  may  despise  it,  seems  to  be  a  necessarv  con- 
stituent in  the  composition  of  manifold  genius.  ''  How 
shall  the  world  be  served  ?  "  asks  the  host  in  Chaucer. 
We  must  have  cart-horses  as  well  as  race-horses,  dray- 
men as  well  as  poets.  It  is  no  bad  thing,  after  all,  to 
be  a  slow  man  and  to  have  one  idea  a  year.  You  don't 
make  a  figure,  perhaps,  in  argumentative  society,  which 
requires  a  quicker  species  of  thought,  but  is  that  the 
worse-? 

Hoi.  J^ia,  goodman  Dull !  thou  hast  spoken  no  word  all  this 

while. 
Dull.  Nor  understood  none  neither,  sir. 
Hoi.  Allans!  we  will  employ  thee. 
Dull.  I  '11  make  one  in  a  dance,  or  so ;  or  I  will  play  on  the 

On  the  tabor  to  the  Worthies,  and  let  them  dance  the  hay. 
Hoi.  Most  dull,  honest  Dull !     To  our  sport,  away !  * 

And  such,  we  believe,  was  the  notion  of  Shakespeare. 

S.  T.  Coleridge  has  a  nice  criticism  which  bears  on  this 
point.  He  observes  that  in  the  narrations  of  uneducated 
people  in  Shakespeare,  just  as  in  real  life,  there  is  a  want 
of  prospectiveness  and  a  superfluous  amount  of  regress- 
iveness.  People  of  this  sort  are  unable  to  look  a  long 
way  in  front  of  them,  and  they  wander  from  the  right 
path.  They  get  on  too  fast  with  one  half,  and  then  the 
other  hopelessly  lags.  They  can  tell  a  story  exactly  as  it 
is  told  to  them  (as  an  animal  can  go  step  by  step  where 
it  has  been  before),  but  they  can't  calculate  its  bearings 
beforehand,  or  see  how  it  is  to  be  adapted  to  those  to 
whom  they  are  speaking,  nor  do  they  know  how  much 
they  have  thoroughly  told  and  how  much  they  have  not. 
'*  I  went  up  the  street,  then  I  went  down  the  street ;  no, 
first  went  down  and  then — but  you  do  not  follow  me ;   I 

*  Lovers  Labour  s  Lost,  V.  i. 
20 


I 


THE  MAN 

go  before  you,  sir."  Thence  arises  the  complex  style 
usually  adopted  by  persons  not  used  to  narration.  They 
tumble  into  a  story  and  get  on  as  they  can.  This  is 
scarcely  the  sort  of  thing  which  a  man  could  foresee.  Of 
course  a  metaphysician  can  account  for  it,  and,  like  Cole- 
ridge, assure  you  that  if  he  had  not  observed  it,  he  could 
have  predicted  it  in  a  moment ;  but,  nevertheless,  it  is  too 
refined  a  conclusion  to  be  made  out  from  known  prem- 
ises by  common  reasoning.  Doubtless  there  is  some  rea- 
son why  negroes  have  woolly  hair  (and  if  you  look  into  a 
philosophical  treatise,  you  will  find  that  the  author  could 
have  made  out  that  it  would  be  so,  if  he  had  not,  by  a 
mysterious  misfortune,  known  from  infancy  that  it  was 
the  fact ) , — still  one  could  never  have  supposed  it  one- 
self. And  in  the  same  manner,  though  the  profounder 
critics  may  explain  in  a  satisfactory  and  refined  manner, 
how  the  confused  and  undulating  style  of  narration  is 
peculiarly  incident  to  the  mere  multitude,  yet  it  is  most 
likely  that  Shakespeare  derived  his  acquaintance  with  it 
from  the  fact,  from  actual  hearing,  and  not  from  what 
may  be  the  surer,  but  is  the  slower,  process  of  meta- 
physical deduction.  The  best  passage  to  illustrate  this  is 
that  in  which  the  nurse  gives  a  statement  of  Juliet's  age ; 
but  it  will  not  exactly  suit  our  pages.  The  following  of 
Airs.  Quickly  will  suffice : — 

Host.  Tilly-fally,  Sir  John,  ne'er  tell  me :  your  ancient  swag- 
gerer comes  not  in  my  doors.  I  was  before  Master  Tisick, 
the  debnty,  t'  other  day ;  and,  as  he  said  to  me,  'twas  no 
longer  ago  than  Wednesday  last,  '  I'  good  faith,  neighbour 
Quickly,'  says  he;  Master  Dumbe,  our  minister,  was  by 
then ;  '  neighbour  Quickly,'  says  he,  '  receive  those  that 
are  civil ;  for,'  said  he,  '  you  are  in  an  ill  name ' :  now  a' 
said  so,  I  can  tell  whereupon ;  '  for,'  says  he,  '  you  are  an 
honest  woman,  and  well  thought  on ;  therefore  take  heed 
what  guests  you  receive :  receive,'  says  he,  '  no  swaggering 
companions.'  There  comes  none  here :  you  would  bless 
you  to  hear  what  he  said :  no,  I  '11  no  swaggerers.* 

*  2  King  Henry  IV.,  II.  iv. 

21 


SHAKESPEARE, 

Now,  it  is  quite  impossible  that  this,  any  more  than 
the  poHtical  reasoning  on  the  parentage  of  Cade,  which 
was  cited  before,  should  have  been  written  by  one  not 
habitually  and  sympathisingly  conversant  with  the  talk 
of  the  illogical  classes.  Shakespeare  felt,  if  we  may  say 
so,  the  force  of  the  bad  reasoning.  He  did  not,  like  a 
sharp  logician,  angrily  detect  a  flaw,  and  set  it  down  as  a 
fallacy  of  reference  or  a  fallacy  of  amphibology.  This 
is  not  the  English  way,  though  Dr.  Whately's  logic  has 
been  published  so  long  (and,  as  he  says  himself,  must  now 
be  deemed  to  be  irrefutable,  since  no  one  has  ever  offered 
any  refutation  of  it).  Yet  still  people  in  this  country 
do  not  like  to  be  committed  to  distinct  premises.  They 
like  a  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  to  say :  ''It  has  du- 
ring very  many  years  been  maintained  by  the  honourable 
member  for  Montrose  that  two  and  two  make  four,  and 
I  am  free  to  say,  that  I  think  there  is  a  great  deal  to  be 
said  in  favour  of  that  opinion ;  but,  without  committing 
her  ^lajesty's  Government  to  that  proposition  as  an  al)- 
stract  sentiment,  I  will  go  so  far  as  to  assume  two  and 
two  are  not  sufficient  to  make  five,  which  with  the  per- 
mission of  the  House,  will  be  a  sufficient  basis  for  all  the 
operations  which  I  propose  to  enter  upon  during  the  pres- 
ent year.''  We  have  no  doubt  Shakespeare  reasoned  in 
that  w^ay  himself.  Like  any  other  Englishman,  when  he 
had  a  clear  course  before  him,  he  rather  liked  to  shuffle 
over  little  hitches  in  the  argument,  and  on  that  account 
he  had  a  great  sympathy  with  those  who  did  so  too.  He 
would  never  have  interrupted  Mrs.  Quickly ;  he  saw 
that  her  mind  was  going  to  and  fro  over  the  subject ;  he 
saw  that  it  was  coming  right,  and  this  was  enough  for 
him,  and  will  be  also  enough  of  this  topic  for  our  readers. 

We  think  we  have  proved  that  Shakespeare  had  an 
enormous  specific  acquaintance  with  the  common  people ; 
that  this  can  only  be  obtained  by  sympathy.  It  likewise 
has  a  further  condition. 

In  spiritedness,  the  style  of  Shakespeare  is  very  like  to 
that  of  Scott.     The  description  of  a  charge  of  cavalry  in 

22 


THE  MAN 

Scott  reads,  as  was  said  before,  as  if  it  was  written  on 
horseback.  A  play  by  Shakespeare  reads  as  if  it  were 
written  in  a  playhouse.  The  great  critics  assure  you  that 
a  theatrical  audience  must  be  kept  awake,  but  Shakespeare 
knew  this  of  his  own  knowledge.  When  you  read  him, 
you  feel  a  sensation  of  motions,  a  conviction  that  there  is 
something  "  up,"  a  notion  that  not  only  is  something  being 
talked  about,  but  also  that  something  is  being  done.  We 
do  not  imagine  that  Shakespeare  owed  this  quality  to  his 
being  a  player,  but  rather  that  he  beca.ne  a  player  because 
he  ppssessed  this  quality  of  mind.  For  after,  and  not- 
withstanding, everything  which  has  been,  or  may  be, 
said  against  the  theatrical  profession,  it  certainly  does 
require  from  those  who  pursue  it  a  certain  quickness 
and  liveliness  of  mind.  Mimics  are  commonly  an  elas- 
tic sort  of  persons,  and  it  takes  a  little  levity  of  dis- 
position to  enact  even  the  "  heavy  fathers."  If  a  boy 
joins  a  company  of  strolling  players,  you  may  be  sure 
that  he  is  not  a  "  good  boy  "  ;  he  may  be  a  trifle  foolish, 
or  a  thought  romantic,  but  certainly  he  is  not  slow.  And 
this  was  in  truth  the  case  with  Shakespeare.  They  say, 
too,  that  in  the  beginning  he  was  a  first-rate  link-boy ; 
and  the  tradition  is  affecting,  though  we  fear  it  is  not 
quite  certain.  Anyhow,  you  feel  about  Shakespeare  that 
he  could  have  been  a  link-boy.  In  the  same  way  you  feel 
he  may  have  been  a  player.  You  are  sure  at  once  that 
he  could  not  have  followed  any  sedentary  kind  of  life. 
But  wheresoever  there  was  anything  acted  in  earnest  or 
in  jest,  by  way  of  mock  representation  or  by  way  of  seri- 
ous reality,  there  he  found  matter  for  his  mind.  If  any- 
body could  have  any  doubt  about  the  liveliness  of  Shake- 
speare, let  them  consider  the  character  of  Falstaff.  When 
a  man  has  created  that  without  a  capacity  for  laughter, 
then  a  blind  man  may  succeed  in  describing  colours.  In- 
tense animal  spirits  are  the  single  sentiment  (if  they  be 
a  sentiment)  of  the  entire  character.  If  most  men  were 
to  save  up  all  the  gaiety  of  their  whole  lives,  it  would 
come  about  to  the  gaiety  of  one  speech  in  Falstaff.     A 

2.3 


SHAKESPEARE, 

morose  man  might  have  amassed  many  jokes,  might  have 
observed  many  details  of  jovial  society,  might  have  con- 
ceived a  Sir  John,  marked  by  rotundity  of  body,  but  could 
hardly  have  imagined  what  we  call  his  rotundity  of  mind. 
We  mean  that  the  animal  spirits  of  Falstaff  give  him  an 
easy,  vague,  diffusive  sagacity  which  is  peculiar  to  him. 
A  morose  man,  lago,  for  example,  may  know  anything, 
and  is  apt  to  know  a  good  deal;  but  what  he  knows  i,s 
generally  all  in  corners.  He  knows  number  i,  number  2, 
number  3,  and  so  on,  but  there  is  not  anything  continuous, 
or  smooth,  or  fluent  in  his  knowledge.  Persons  conver- 
sant with  the  works  of  Hazlitt  will  know  in  a  minute  what 
w^e  mean.  Everything  which  he  observed  he  seemed  to 
observe  from  a  certain  soreness  of  mind ;  he  looked  at 
people  because  they  offended  him ;  he  had  the  same  vivid 
notion  of  them  that  a  man  has  of  objects  which  grate  on  a 
wound  in  his  body.  But  there  is  nothing  at  all  of  this  in 
Falstaff;  on  the  contrary,  everything  pleases  him,  and 
everything  is  food  for  a  joke.  Cheerfulness  and  pros- 
perity give  an  easy  abounding  sagacity  of  mind  which 
nothing  else  does  give.  Prosperous  people  bound  easily 
over  all  the  surface  of  things  which  their  lives  present  to 
them;  very  likely  they  keep  to  the  surface;  there  arc 
things  beneath  or  above  to  which  they  may  not  penetrate 
or  attain,  but  what  is  on  any  part  of  the  surface,  that 
they  know  well.  "Lift  not  the  painted  veil  which  those 
who  live  call  life,"*  and  they  do  not  lift  it.  What  is  sub- 
lime or  awful  above,  what  is  "  sightless  and  drear  "f  be- 
neath,— these  they  may  not  dream  of.  Nor  is  any  one 
piece  or  corner  of  life  so  well  impressed  on  them  as  on 
minds  less  happily  constituted.  It  is  only  people  who 
have  had  a  tooth  out,  that  really  know  the  dentist's  wait- 
ing-room. Yet  such  people,  for  the  time  at  least,  know 
nothing  but  that  and  their  tooth.  The  easy  and  sym- 
pathising friend  who  accompanies  them  knows  everv- 
thing;  hints  gently  at  the  contents  of  the  Times,  and 
would  cheer  you  with  Lord  Palmerston's  replies.     So,  on 

*  Shelley :  Sonnet  (1818).  f  ^^f^- 

24 


THE  MAN 

a  greater  scale,  the  man  of  painful  experience  knows  but 
too  well  what  has  hurt  him,  and  where  and  why ;  but  the 
happy  have  a  vague  and  rounded  view  of  the  round  world, 
and  such  was  the  knowledge  of  Falstaff. 

It  is  to  be  observed  that  these  high  spirits  are  not  a 
mere  excrescence  or  superficial  point  in  an  experiencing 
nature ;  on  the  contrary,  they  seem  to  be  essential,  if  not 
to  its  idea  or  existence,  at  least  to  its  exercise  and  employ- 
ment. How  are  you  to  know  people  without  talking  to 
them,  but  how  are  you  to  talk  to  them  without  tiring 
yourself?  A  common  man  is  exhausted  in  half  an  hour; 
Scott  or  Shakespeare  could  have  gone  on  for  a  whole  day. 
This  is,  perhaps,  peculiarly  necessary  for  a  painter  of 
English  life.  The  basis  of  our  national  character  seems 
to  be  a  certain  energetic  humour,  which  may  be  found  in 
full  vigour  in  old  Chaucer's  time,  and  in  great  perfection 
in  at  least  one  of  the  popular  writers  of  this  age,  and 
which  is,  perhaps,  most  easily  described  by  the  name  of 
our  greatest  painter — Hogarth.  It  is  amusing  to  see  how 
entirely  the  efforts  of  critics  and  artists  fail  to  naturalise 
in  England  any  other  sort  of  painting.  Their  efforts  are 
fruitless ;  for  the  people  painted  are  not  English  people : 
they  may  be  Italians,  or  Greeks,  or  Jews,  but  it  is  quite 
certain  that  they  are  foreigners.  We  should  not  fancy 
that  modern  art  ought  to  resemble  the  mediaeval.  So 
long  as  artists  attempt  the  same  class  of  paintings  as 
Raphael,  they  will  not  only  be  inferior  to  Raphael,  but 
they  will  never  please,  as  they  might  please,  the  English 
people.  What  we  want  is  what  Hogarth  gave  us — a  rep- 
resentation of  ourselves.  It  may  be  that  we  are  wrong, 
that  we  ought  to  prefer  something  of  the  old  world,  some 
scene  in  Rome  or  Athens,  some  tale  from  Carmel  or  Jeru- 
salem; but,  after  all,  we  do  not.  These  places  are,  we 
think,  abroad,  and  had  their  greatness  in  former  times; 
we  wish  a  copy  of  what  now  exists,  and  of  what  we  have 
seen.  London  we  know,  and  Manchester  we  know,  but 
where  are  all  these?  It  is  the  same  with  literature,  Mil- 
ton excepted,  and  even  Milton  can  hardly  be  called  a  pop- 

25 


SHAKESPEARE. 

ular  writer;  all  great  English  writers  describe  English 
people,  and  in  describing  them,  they  give,  as  they  must 
give,  a  large  comic  element ;  and,  speaking  generally,  this 
is  scarcely  possible,  except  in  the  case  of  cheerful  and 
easy-living  men.  There  is,  no  doubt,  a  biting  satire,  like 
that  of  Swift,  which  has  for  its  essence  misanthropy. 
There ts  the  mockery  of  Voltaire,  which  is  based  on  intel- 
lectual contempt ;  but  this  is  not  our  English  humour — it 
is  not  that  of  Shakespeare  and  Falstafif;  ours  is  the  hu- 
mour of  a  man  who  laughs  when  he  speaks,  of  flowing 
enjoyment,  of  an  experiencing  nature. 

Yet  it  would  be  a  great  error  if  we  gave  anything  like 
an  exclusive  prominence  to  this  aspect  of  Shakespeare. 
Thus  he  appeared  to  those  around  him — in  some  degree 
they  knew  that  he  was  a  cheerful,  and  humorous,  and 
happy  man ;  but  of  his  higher  gift  they  knew  less  than 
we.  A  great  painter  of  men  must  (as  has  been  said) 
have  a  faculty  of  conversing,  but  he  must  also  have  a 
capacity  for  solitude.  There  is  much  of  mankind  that  a 
man  can  only  learn  for  himself.  Behind  every  man's  ex- 
ternal life,  which  he  leads  in  company,  there  is  another 
which  he  leads  alone,  and  which  he  carries  with  him  apart. 
We  see  but  one  aspect  of  our  neighbour,  as  we  see  but  one 
side  of  the  moon ;  in  either  case  there  is  also  a  dark  half, 
which  is  unknown  to  us.  We  all  come  down  to  dinner, 
but  each  has  a  room  to  himself.  And  if  we  would  study 
the  internal  lives  of  others,  it  seems  essential  that  we 
should  begin  with  our  own.  If  we  study  this  our  datum, 
if  we  attain  to  see  and  feel  how  this  influences  and  evolves 
itself  in  our  social  and  (so  to  say)  public  life,  then  it  is 
possible  that  we  may  find  in  the  lives  of  others  the  same 
or  analogous  features ;  and  if  we  do  not,  then  at  least  we 
may  suspect  that  those  who  want  them  are  deficient  like- 
wise in  the  secret  agencies  which  we  feel  produce  them  in 
ourselves.  The  metaphysicians  assert  that  people  origi- 
nally picked  up  the  idea  of  the  existence  of  other  people  in 
this  way.  It  is  orthodox  doctrine  that  a  babv  says :  *'  I 
have  a  mouth,  mamma  has  a  mouth :    therefore  I'm  the 

26 


THE  MAN 

same  species  as  mamma.  I  have  a  nose,  papa  has  a  nose : 
therefore  papa  is  the  same  genus  as  me."  But  whether 
or  not  this  ingenious  idea  reahy  does  or  does  not  represent 
the  actual  process  by  which  we  originally  obtain  an  ac- 
quaintance with  the  existence  of  minds  analogous  to  our 
own,  it  gives  unquestionably  the  process  by  which  we 
obtain  our  notion  of  that  part  of  those  minds  which  they 
never  exhibit  consciously  to  others,  and  which  only  be- 
comes predominant  in  secrecy  and  solitude  and  to  them- 
selves. Now,  that  Shakespeare  has  this  insight  into  the 
musing  life  of  man,  as  well  as  into  his  social  life,  is  easy 
to  prove  ;  take,  for  instance,  the  following  passages  :^- 

"  This  battle  fares  like  to  the  morning's  war, 
When  dying  clouds  contend  with  growing  light, 
What  time  the  shepherd,  blowing  of  his  nails, 
Can  neither  call  it  perfect  day  nor  night. 
Now  sways  it  this  way,  like  a  mighty  sea 
Forced  by  the  tide  to  combat  with  the  wind ; 
Now  sways  it  that  way,  like  the  self-same  sea 
Forced  to  retire  by  fury  of  the  wind : 
Sometime  the  flood  prevails ;  and  then  the  winu , 
Now  one  the  better,  then  another  best ; 
Both  tugging  to  be  victors,  breast  to  breast. 
Yet  neither  conqueror  nor  conquered : 
So  is  the  equal  poise  of  this  fell  war. 
Here  on  this  molehill  will  I  sit  me  down. 
To  whom  God  will,  there  be  the  victory ! 
For  Margaret  my  queen,  and  Clifford  too, 
Have  chid  me  from  the  battle ;  swearing  both 
They  prosper  best  of  all  when  I  am  thence. 
Would  I  were  dead !  if  God's  good  will  were  so ; 
For  what  is  in  this  world  but  grief  and  woe? 
O  God !  methinks  it  were  a  happy  life. 
To  be  no  better  than  a  homely  swain ; 
To  sit  upon  a  hill,  as  I  do  now, 
To  carve  out  dials  quaintly,  point  by  point, 
Thereby  to  see  the  minutes  how  the}^  run. 
How  many  make  the  hour  full  complete ; 
How  many  hours  bring  about  the  day ; 
How  many  days  will  finish  up  the  year ; 

27 


SHAKESPEARE, 

How  many  years  a  mortal  man  may  live. 

When  this  is  known,  then  to  divide  the  times : 

So  many  hours  must  I  tend  my  flock; 

So  many  hours  must  I  take  my  rest; 

So  many  hours  must  I  contemplate; 

So  many  hours  must  I  sport  myself; 

So  many  days  my  ewes  have  been  with  young; 

So  many  weeks  ere  the  poor  fools  will  ean ; 

So  many  years  ere  I  shall  shear  the  fleece : 

So  minutes,  hours,  days,  months,  and  years, 

Pass'd  over  to  the  end  they  were  created, 

Would  bring  white  hairs  unto  a  quiet  grave. 

Ah,  what  a  life  were  this!  how  sweet!  how  lovely! 

bives  not  the  hawthorn-bush  a  sweeter  shade 

To  shepherds  looking  on  their  silly  sheep, 

Than  doth  a  rich  embroider'd  canopy 

To  kings  that  fear  their  subjects'  treachery? 

O,  yes,  it  doth ;  a  thousand- fold  it  doth. 

And  to  conclude,  the  shepherd's  homely  curds, 

His  cold  thin  drink  out  of  his  leather  bottle, 

His  wonted  sleep  under  a  fresh  tree's  shade, 

All  which  secure  and  sweetly  he  enjoys. 

Is  far  beyond  a  prince's  delicates, 

His  viands  sparkling  in  a  golden  cup, 

His  body  couched  in  a  curious  bed, 

When  care,  mistrust,  and  treason  waits  on  him."* 

"  A  fool,  a  fool !  I  met  a  fool  i'  the  forest, 
A  motley  fool ;  a  miserable  world! 
As  I  do  live  by  food,  I  met  a  fool; 
Who  laid  him  down  and  bask'd  him  in  the  sun, 
And  rail'd  on  Lady  Fortune  in  good  terms, 
In  good  set  terms,  and  yet  a  motley  fool. 
'  Good-morrow,  fool,'  quoth  I.     '  No,  sir,'  quoth  he, 
*  Call  me  not  fool  till  heaven  hath  sent  me  fortune ' : 
And  then  he  drew  a  dial  from  his  poke, 
And,  looking  on  it  with  lack-lustre  eye. 
Says  very  wisely,  '  It  is  ten  o'clock: 
Thus  we  may  see,'  quoth  he,  '  how  the  world  wags : 
'Tis  but  an  hour  ago  since  it  was  nine ; 
And  after  one  hour  more,  'twill  be  eleven ; 

*  3  Kmg-  Henry  VI.,  II.  v. 
28 


THE  MAN 

And  so,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  ripe  and  ripe, 
And  then,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  rot  and  rot ; 
And  thereb}^  hangs  a  tale.'    When  I  did  hear 
The  motley  fool  thus  moral  on  the  time, 
My  lungs  began  to  crow  like  chanticleer, 
That  fools  should  be  so  deep-contemplative; 
And  I  did  laugh  sans  intermission 
An  hour  by  his  dial."* 

No  slight  versatility  of  mind  and  pliancy  of  fancy  could 
pass  at  will  from  scenes  such  as  these  to  the  ward  of  East- 
cheap  and  the  society  which  heard  the  chimes  at  midnight. 
One  of  the  reasons  of  the  rarity  of  great  imaginative 
works  is  that  in  very  few  cases  is  this  capacity  for  musing 
solitude  combined  with  that  of  observing  mankind.  A 
certain  constitutional  though  latent  melancholy  is  essential 
to  such  a  nature.  This  is  the  exceptional  characteristic 
in  Shakespeare.  All  through  his  works  you  feel  you  are 
reading  the  popular  author,  the  successful  man;  but 
through  them  all  there  is  a  certain  tinge  of  musing  sad- 
ness pervading,  and,  as  it  were,  softening  their  gaiety. 
Not  a  trace  can  be  found  of  "  eating  cares  "  or  narrow 
and  mind-contracting  toil,  but  everywhere  there  is,  in 
addition  to  shrewd  sagacity  and  buoyant  w^isdom,  a  re- 
fining element  of  chastening  sensibilitv,  which  prevents 
sagacitv  from  being  rough,  and  shrewdness  from  becom- 
ing cold.     He  had  an  eye  for  either  sort  of  life : — 

*'  Why,  let  the  stricken  deer  go  weep. 
The  hart  ungalled  play ; 
For  some  must  watch,  and  some  must  sleep: 
Thus  runs  the  world  away."t 

In  another  point  also  Shakespeare,  as  he  was,  must  be 
carefully  contrasted  with  the  estimate  that  would  be 
formed  of  him  from  stich  delineations  as  that  of  Falstaff, 
and  that  was  doubtless  frequently  made  by  casual,  though 
onlv  by  casual,  frequenters  of  the  Mermaid.  It  has  been 
said  that  the  mind  of  Shakespeare  contained  within  it  the 

*  As  You  Like  It,  II.  vii.  t  Hamlet,  III.  ii. 

29 


SHAKESPEARE, 

mind  of  Scott ;  it  remains  to  be  observed  that  it  contained 
also  the  mind  of  Keats.  For,  beside  the  delineation  of 
human  life,  and  beside  also  the  delineation  of  Nature, 
there  remains  also  for  the  poet  a  third  subject — the  de- 
lineation of  fancies.  Of  course  these,  be  they  what  they 
may,  are  like  to,  and  were  originally  borrowed  from, 
either  man  or  Nature — from  one  or  from  both  together. 
We  know  but  two  things  in  the  simple  way  of  direct  ex- 
perience, and  whatever  else  we  know  must  be  in  some 
mode  or  manner  compacted  out  of  them.  Yet  "  books 
are  a  substantial  world,  both  pure  and  good,"  and  so  are 
fancies  too.  In  all  countries,  men  have  devised  to  them- 
selves a  whole  series  of  half-divine  creations — mythologies 
Greek  and  Roman,  fairies,  angels,  beings  who  may  be, 
for  aught  we  know,  but  with  whom,  in  the  meantime,  we 
can  attain  to  no  conversation.  The  most  known  of  theso 
mythologies  are  the  Greek,  and  what  is,  we  suppose,  t'^e 
second  epoch  of  the  Gothic,  the  fairies  ;  and  it  so  happens 
that  Shakespeare  has  dealt  with  them  both,  and  in  a  re- 
markable manner.  We  are  not,  indeed,  of  those  critic; 
who  profess  simple  and  unqualified  admiration  for  the 
poem  of  Venus  and  Adonis.  It  seems  intrinsically,  as 
we  know  it  from  external  testimony  to  have  been,  a  juve- 
nile production,  written  when  Shakespeare's  nature  might 
be  well  expected  to  be  crude  and  unripened.  Power  is 
shown,  and  power  of  a  remarkable  kind  ;  but  it  is  not  dis- 
played in  a  manner  that  will  please  or  does  please  the  mass 
of  men.  In  spite  of  the  name  of  its  author,  the  poem  has 
never  been  popular — and  surely  this  is  sufficient.  Never- 
theless, it  is  remarkable  as  a  literary  exercise,  and  as  a 
treatment  of  a  singular,  though  unpleasant  subject.  The 
fanciful  class  of  poems  differ  from  others  in  being  laid, 
so  far  as  their  scene  goes,  in  a  perfectly  unseen  world. 
The  type  of  such  productions  is  Keats's  Endymion. 
We  mean  that  it  is  the  type,  not  as  giving  the  abstract  per- 
fection of  this  sort  of  art,  but  because  it  shows  and  em- 
bodies both  its  excellences  and  defects  in  a  very  marked 
and  prominent  manner.     In  that  poem  there  are  no  pas- 

30 


THE  MAN 

sions  and  no  actions,  there  is  no  art  and  no  life ;  but 
there  is  beauty,  and  that  is  meant  to  be  enough,  and  to  a 
reader  of  one  and  twenty  it  is  enough  and  more.  What 
are  exploits  or  speeches?  what  is  Caesar  or  Coriolanus? 
what  is  a  tragedy  like  Lear,  or  a  real  view  of  human 
life  in  any  kind  whatever,  to  people  who  do  not  know  and 
do  not  care  wdiat  human  life  is?  In  early  youth  it  is, 
perhaps,  not  true  that  the  passions,  taken  generally,  are 
particularly  violent,  or  that  the  imagination  is  in  any  re- 
markable degree  powerful :  but  it  is  certain  that  the  fancy 
(which  though  it  be,  in  the  last  resort,  but  a  weak  stroke 
of  that  same  faculty,  wdiich,  when  it  strikes  hard,  we  call 
imagination,  may  yet  for  this  purpose  be  looked  on  as 
distinct)  is  particularly  wakeful,  and  that  the  gentler 
species  of  passions  are  more  absurd  than  they  are  after- 
wards. And  the  literature  of  this  period  of  human  life 
i  uns  naturally  away  from  the  real  world ;  away  from  the 
less  ideal  portion  of  it,  from  stocks  and  stones,  and  aunts 
and  uncles,  and  rests  on  mere  half-embodied  sentiments, 
which  in  the  hands  of  great  poets  assume  a  kind  of  semi- 
personality,  and  are,  to  the  distinction  between  things  and 
persons,  "  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  w^ater  unto 
wine."*  The  Sonnets  of  Shakespeare  belong  exactly  to 
the  same  school  of  poetry.  They  are  not  the  sort  of 
verses  to  lake  any  particular  hold  upon  the  mind  per- 
manently and  for  ever,  but  at  a  certain  period  they  take 
too  much.  For  a  young  man  to  read  in  the  spring  of  the 
yean  among  green  fields  and  in  gentle  air,  they  are  the 
ideal.     As  First  of  April  poetry  they  are  perfect. 

The  Midsununer-Nighfs  Dream  is  of  another  order. 
If  the  question  were  to  be  decided  by  Venus  and 
Adonis,  in  spite  of  the  unmeasured  panegvrics  of  many 
writers,  we  should  be  obliged  in  equity  to  hold,  that  as  a 
poet  of  mere  fancy  Shakespeare  was  much  inferior  to  the 
late  Mr.  Keats  and  even  to  meaner  men.  Moreover,  we 
should  have  been  prepared  <vith  some  refined  reasonings 
to  show  that  it  was  unlikely  that  a  poet  with  so  much 

*  Tennyson  :  Locksley  Hall. 
31 


SHAKESPEARE, 

hold  on  reality,  in  life  and  Nature,  both  in  solitude  and  in 
society,  should  have  also  a  similar  command  over  nn- 
reality :  should  possess  a  command  not  only  of  flesh  and 
blood,  but  of  the  imaginary  entities  which  the  self-inwork- 
ing  fancy  brings  forth — impalpable  conceptions  of  mere 
mind:  quccdam  simulacra  iniris  pallentia  modis ,'^  thin 
ideas,  which  come  we  know  not  whence,  and  are  given  us 
we  know  not  why.  But,  unfortunately  for  this  ingenious, 
if  not  profound  suggestion,  Shakespeare,  in  fact,  pos- 
sessed the  very  faculty  which  it  tends  to  prove  that  he 
would  not  possess.  He  could  paint  Poins  and  Falstaff, 
but  he  excelled  also  in  fairy  legends.     He  had  such 

"  Seething  brains, 
Such  shaping  fantasies,  that  apprehend 
More  than  cool  reason  ever  comprehends. "f 

As,  for  example,  the  idea  of  Puck,  or  Queen  Mab,  of 
Ariel,  or  such  a  passage  as  the  following : — 

Puck.  How  now,  spirit !  whither  wander  you  ? 
Fai.  Over  hill,  over  dale. 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier, 

Over  park,  over  pale, 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 

I  do  wander  every  where. 

Swifter  than  the  moon's  sphere  ; 

And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen. 

To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green. 

The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be : 

In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see ; 

Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favours, 

In  those  freckles  live  their  savours : 

I  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here. 

And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 

Farewell,  thou  lob  of  spirits ;  I  '11  be  gone : 

Our  queen  and  all  her  elves  come  here  anon. 
Puck.  The  king  doth  keep  his  revels  here  to-night : 

Take  heed  the  queen  come  not  within  his  sight ; 

For  Oberon  is  passing  fell  and  wrath, 

*  Lucretius,  I.  xxiv.  ■\  A  Midsummer-Nighf  s  Dream,  V.  i. 

32 


THE  MAN 

Because  that  she  as  her  attendant  hath 

A  lovely  boy,  stolen  from  an  Indian  king; 

She  never  had  so  sweet  a  changeling : 

And  jealous  Oberpn  would  have  the  child 

Knight  of  his  traiii,  to  trace  the  forests  wild; 

But  she  perforce  withholds  the  loved  boy, 

Crowns  him  with  flowers,  and  makes  him  all  her  jo3^ 

And  now  they  never  meet  in  grove  or  green, 

By  fountain  clear,  or  spangled  starlight  sheen, 

But  they  do  square,  that  all  their  elves  for  fear 

Creep  into  acorn-cups  and  hide  them  there. 

Fai.  Either  I  mistake  your  shape  and  making  quite, 
Or  else  you  are  that  shrewd  and  knavish  sprite 
Call'd  Robin  Goodfellow  :   are  not  you  he 
That  frights  the  maidens  of  the  villagery ; 
Skim  milk,  and  sometimes  labour  in  the  quern. 
And  bootless  make  the  breathless  housewife  churn ; 
And  sometime  make  the  drink  to  bear  no  barm ; 
Mislead  night-wanderers,  laughing  at  their  harm? 
Those  that  Hobgoblin  call  you,  and  sweet  Puck, 
You  do  their  work,  and  they  shall  have  good  luck: 
Are  not  you  he? 

Puck.  Thou  speak'st  aright ; 

I  am  that  merry  wanderer  of  the  night. 
I  jest  to  Oberon,  and  make  him  smile. 
When  I  a  fat  and  bean-fed  horse  beguile, 
Neighing  in  likeness  of  a  filly  foal : 
And  sometime  lurk  1  in  a  gossip's  bowl. 
In  very  likeness  of  a  roasted  crab ; 
And  when  she  drinks,  against  her  lips  I  bob 
And  on  her  withered  dewlap  pour  the  ale. 
The  wisest  aunt,  telling  the  saddest  tale, 
Sometime  for  three-foot  stool  mistaketh  me; 
Then  slip  I  from  beneath,  down  topples  she, 
And  tailor  cries,  and  falls  into  a  cough; 
And  then  the  whole  quire  hold  their  hips  and  laugh; 
And  waxen  in  their  mirth,  and  neeze,  and  swear 
A  merrier  hour  was  never  wasted  there. 
But,  room,  fairy?  here  comes  Oberon. 

Fai.  And  here  my  mistress.   Would  that  he  were  gone  !* 

*  A  Midsummer- Nighi's  Dream,  II.  i. 


SHAKESPEARE. 

Probably  he  believed  in  these  things.  Why  not  ?  Every- 
body else  believed  in  them  then.  They  suit  our  climate. 
As  the  Greek  mythology  suits  the  keen  Attic  sky,  the  fair- 
ies, indistinct  and  half-defined,  suit  a  land  of  wild  mists 
and  gentle  airs.  They  confuse  the  "  maidens  of  the  vil- 
lagery  "  ;  they  are  the  paganism  of  the  South  of  England. 

Can  it  be  made  out  what  were  Shakespeare's  political 
views  ?  We  think  it  certainly  can,  and  that  without  diffi- 
culty. From  the  English  historical  plays,  it  distinctly 
appears  that  he  accepted,  like  everybody  then,  the  Consti- 
tution of  his  country.  His  lot  was  not  cast  in  an  age  of 
political  controversy,  nor  of  reform.  What  was,  was 
from  of  old.  The  Wars  of  the  Roses  had  made  it  very 
evident  how  much  room  there  was  for  the  evils  incident 
to  an  hereditary  monarchy,  for  instance,  those  of  a  con- 
troverted succession,  and  the  evils  incident  to  an  aristoc- 
racy, as  want  of  public  spirit  and  audacious  selfishness, 
to  arise  and  continue  within  the  realm  of  England.  Yet 
they  had  not  repelled,  and  had  barely  disconcerted,  our 
conservative  ancestors.  They  had  not  become  Jacobins  ; 
they  did  not  concur — and  history,  except  in  Shakespeare, 
hardly  does  justice  to  them — in  Jack  Cade's  notion  that  the 
laws  should  come  out  of  his  mouth,  or  that  the  common- 
wealth was  to  be  reformed  by  interlocutors  in  this  scene. 

Bcvis.  I  tell  thee,  Jack  Cade  the  clothier  means  to  dress  the 
commonwealth,  and  turn  it,  and  set  a  new  nap  upon  it. 

Holl.  So  he  had  need,  for  'tis  threadbare.  Well,  I  say  it  was 
never  merry  world  in  England  since  gentlemen  came  up. 

Bci'is.  O  miserable  age!  Virtue  is  not  regarded  in  handi- 
crafts-men. 

Holl.  The  nobility  think  scorn  to  go  in  leather  aprons. 

Bevis.  Nay,  more,  the  king's  council  are  no  good  workmen. 

Holl.  True ;  and  yet  it  is  said,  labour  in  thy  vocation ;  which 
is  as  much  to  say  as,  let  the  magistrates  be  labouring  men ; 
and  therefore  should  we  be  magistrates. 

Bevis.  Thou  hast  hit  it ;  for  there  's  no  better  sign  of  a  brave 
mind  than  a  hard  hand. 

Holl.  I  see  them  !  I  see  them  !* 

*  2  King  Henry  VI.,  IV.  ii. 

34 


THE  MAN 

The  English  people  did  see  them,  and  know  them,  and 
therefore  have  rejected  them.  An  audience  which,  bond 
ade,  entered  into  the  merit  of  this  scene,  would  never  be- 
lieve in  everybody's  suffrage.  They  would  know  that 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  nonsense,  and  when  a  man  has 
once  attained  to  that  deep  conception,  you  may  be  sure 
of  him  ever  after.  And  though  it  would  be  absurd  to 
say  that  Shakespeare  originated  this  idea,  or  that  the  dis- 
belief in  simple  democracy  is  owing  to  his  teaching  or 
suggestions,  yet  it  may,  nevertheless,  be  truly  said,  that 
he  shared  in  the  peculiar  knowledge  of  men — and  also 
possessed  the  peculiar  constitution  of  mind — which  en- 
gender this  effect.  The  author  of  Coriolanus  never  be- 
lieved in  a  m.ob,  and  did  something  towards  preventing 
anybody  else  from  doing  so.  But  this  political  idea  was 
not  exactly  the  strongest  in  Shakespeare's  mind.  We 
think  he  had  two  other  stronger,  or  as  strong.  First,  the 
feeling  of  loyalty  to  the  ancient  polity  of  this  country — 
not  because  it  was  good,  but  because  it  existed.  In  his 
time,  people  no  more  thought  of  the  origin  of  the  mon- 
archy than  -they  did  of  the  origin  of  the  Mendip  Hills. 
The  one  had  always  been  there,  and  so  had  the  other. 
God  (such  was  the  common  notion)  had  made  both,  and 
one  as  much  as  the  other.  Everywhere,  in  that  age,  the 
common  modes  of  political  speech  assumed  the  existence 
of  certain  utterly  national  institutions,  and  Avould  have 
been  w^orthless  and  nonsensical  except  on  that  assumption. 
This  national  habit  appears  as  it  ought  to  appear  in  our 
national  dramatist.  A  great  divine  tells  us  that  the 
Thirty-nine  Articles  are  "  forms  of  thought  "  ;  inevitable 
conditions  of  the  religious  understanding:  in  politics, 
*'  kings,  lords,  and  commons  "  are,  no  doubt,  "  forms  of 
thought,"  to  the  great  majority  of  Englishmen ;  in  these 
they  live,  and  beyond  these  they  never  move.  You  can't 
reason  on  the  removal  (such  is  the  notion)  of  the  Eng- 
lish Channel,  nor  St.  George's  Channel,  nor  can  you  of 
the  English  Constitution,  in  like  manner.  It  is  to  most 
of  us,  and  to  the  happiest  of  us,  a  thing  im.mutable,  and 

35 


SHAKESPEARE, 

such,  no  doubt,  it  was  to  Shakespeare,  which,  if  any  one 
would  have  proved,  let  him  refer  at  random  to  any  page 
of  the  historical  English  plays. 

The  second  pecuHar  tenet  which  we  ascribe  to  his  po- 
litical creed,  is  a  disbelief  in  the  middle  classes.  We  fear 
he  had  no  opinion  of  traders.  In  this  age,  we  know,  it  is 
held  that  the  keeping  of  a  shop  is  equivalent  to  a  political 
education.  Occasionally,  in  country  villages,  where  the 
trader  sells  everything,  he  is  thought  to  know  nothing, 
and  has  no  vote ;  but  in  a  town  where  he  is  a  householder 
(as,  indeed,  he  is  in  the  country),  and  sells  only  one 
thing — there  we  assume  that  he  knows  everything.  And 
this  assumption  is,  in  the  opinion  of  some  observers,  con- 
firmed by  the  fact.  Sir  Walter  Scott  used  to  relate,  that 
when,  after  a  trip  to  London,  he  returned  to  Tweedside, 
he  always  found  the  people  in  that  district  knew  more  of 
politics  than  the  Cabinet.  And  so  it  is  with  the  mercan- 
tile community  in  modern  times.  If  you  are  a  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer,  it  is  possible  that  you  may  be  acquainted 
with  finance  ;  but  if  you  sell  figs  it  is  certain  that  you  will. 
Now  we  nowhere  find  this  laid  down  in  Shakespeare.  On 
the  contrary,  you  will  generally  find  that  when  a  "  citi- 
zen "  is  mentioned,  he  generally  does  or  says  something 
absurd.  Shakespeare  had  a  clear  perception  that  it  is 
possible  to  bribe  a  class  as  well  as  an  individual,  and  that 
personal  obscurity  is  but  an  insecure  guarantee  for  po- 
litical disinterestedness. 

"  Moreover,  he  hath  left  you  all  his  walks, 
His  private  arbours  and  new-planted  orchards, 
On  this  side  Tiber;  he  hath  left  them  you. 
And  to  your  heirs  for  ever;  common  pleasures, 
To  walk  abroad  and  recreate  yourselves. 
Here  was  a  Cresar !  when  comes  such  another?  "* 

He  everywhere  speaks  in  praise  of  a  tempered  and  or- 
dered and  qualified  polity,  in  which  the  pecuniary  classes 
have  a  certain  influence,  but  no  more,  and  shows  in  every 

*  Julius  Caesar,  III.  ii. 
36 


I 


THE  MAN 

page  a  keen  sensibility  to  the  large  views  and  high-souled 
energies,  the  gentle  refinements  and  disinterested  desires, 
in  which  those  classes  are  likely  to  be  especially  deficient. 
He  is  particularly  the  poet  of  personal  nobility,  though, 
throughout  his  writings,  there  is  a  sense  of  freedom,  just 
as  r^Iilton  is  the  poet  of  freedom,  though  with  an  under- 
lying reference  to  personal  nobility ;  indeed,  we  might 
well  expect  our  two  poets  to  combine  the  appreciation  of 
a  rude  and  generous  liberty  with  that  of  a  delicate  and 
refined  nobleness,  since  it  is  the  union  of  these  two  ele- 
ments that  characterises  our  society  and  their  experience. 
There  are  two  things — good-tempered  sense  and  ill- 
tempered  sense.  In  our  remarks  on  the  character  of  Fal- 
staff,  w^e  hope  we  have  made  it  very  clear  that  Shake- 
speare had  the  former ;  we  think  it  nearly  as  certain  that 
he  possessed  the  latter  also.  An  instance  of  this  might 
be  taken  from  that  contempt  for  the  perspicacity  of  the 
bourgeoisie  which  we  have  just  been  mentioning.  It  is 
within  the  limits  of  what  may  be  called  malevolent  sense, 
to  take  extreme  and  habitual  pleasure  in  remarking  the 
foolish  opinions,  the  narrow  notions,  and  fallacious  deduc- 
tions which  seem  to  cling  to  the  pompous  and  prosperous 
man  of  business.  Ask  him  his  opinion  of  the  currency 
question,  and  he  puts  "  bills  "  and  ''  bullion  "  together  in  a 
sentence,  and  he  does  not  seem  to  care  what  he  puts  be- 
tween them.  But  a  more  proper  instance  of  (what  has 
an  odd  sound),  the  malevolence  of  Shakespeare  is  to  be 
found  in  the  play  of  Measure  for  Measure.  We  agree 
with  Hazlitt,  that  this  play  seems  to  be  written,  perhaps 
more  than  any  other,  con  ainore,  and  with  a  relish  ;  and 
this  seems  to  be  the  reason  why,  notwithstanding  the  un- 
pleasant nature  of  its  plot,  and  the  absence  of  any  very 
attractive  character,  it  is  yet  one  of  the  plays  which  take 
hold  on  the  mind  most  easily  and  most  powerfully.  Now 
the  entire  character  of  Angelo,  which  is  the  expressive 
feature  of  the  piece,  is  nothing  but  a  successful  embodi- 
ment of  the  pleasure,  the  malevolent  pleasure,  which  a 
warm-blooded  and  expansive  man  takes  in  watching  the 

Z7 


SHAKESPEARE. 

rare,  the  dangerous  and  inanimate  excesses  of  the  con- 
strained and  cold-blooded.  One  seems  to  see  Shake- 
speare, with  his  bright  eyes  and  his  large  lips  and  buoyant 
face,  watching  with  a  pleasant  excitement  the  excesses  of 
his  thin-lipped  and  calculating  creation,  as  though  they 
were  the  excesses  of  a  real  person.  It  is  the  complete 
picture  of  a  natural  hypocrite,  who  does  not  consciously 
disguise  strong  impulses,  but  whose  very  passions  seem 
of  their  own  accord  to  have  disguised  themselves  and  re- 
treated into  the  recesses  of  the  character,  yet  only  to  recur 
even  more  dangerously  when  their  proper  period  is  ex- 
pired, when  the  will  is  cheated  into  security  by  their  ab- 
sence, and  the  world  (and,  it  may  be,  the  *'  judicious  per- 
son "  himself)  is  impressed  with  a  sure  reliance  in  his 
chilling  and  remarkable  rectitude. 

It  has,  we  believe,  been  doubted  whether  Shakespeare 
was  a  man  much  conversant  with  the  intimate  society  of 
women.  Of  course  no  one  denies  that  he  possessed  a 
great  knowledge  of  them — a  capital  acquaintance  with 
their  excellences,  faults,  and  foibles ;  but  it  has  been 
thought  that  this  was  the  result  rather  of  imagination  than 
of  society,  of  creative  fancy  rather  than  of  perceptive  ex- 
perience. Now  that  Shakespeare  possessed,  among  other 
singular  qualities,  a  remarkable  imaginative  knowledge  of 
women,  is  quite  certain,  for  he  was  acquainted  with  the 
soliloquies  of  women.  A  w^oman  we  suppose,  like  a  man, 
must  be  alone,  in  order  to  speak  a  soliloquy.  After  the 
greatest  possible  intimacy  and  experience,  it  must  still  be 
imagination,  or  fancy  at  least,  which  tells  any  man  what 
a  woman  thinks  of  herself  and  to  herself.  There  will  still 
— get  as  near  the  limits  of  confidence  or  observation  as 
you  can — be  a  space  which  must  be  filled  up  from  other 
means.  Men  can  only  divine  the  truth — reserve,  indeed, 
is  a  part  of  its  charm.  Seeing,  therefore,  that  Shake- 
speare had  done  what  necessarily  and  certainly'  must  be 
dene  wdthout  experience,  we  were  in  some  doubt  whether 
he  might  not  have  dispensed  with  it  altogether.  A  grave 
reviewer  cannot  know  these  things.     We  thought  indeed 

38 


THE  MAN 

of  reasoning  that  since  the  dehneations  of  women  in 
Shakespeare  were  admitted  to  be  first-rate,  it  should  fol- 
low,— at  least  there  was  a  fair  presumption, — that  no 
means  or  aid  had  been  wanting  to  their  production,  and 
that  consequently  we  ought,  in  the  absence  of  distinct  evi- 
dence, to  assume  that  personal  intimacy  as  well  as  solitary 
imagination  had  been  concerned  in  their  production. 
And  we  meant  to  cite  the  ''  questions  about  Octavia," 
which  Lord  Byron,  who  thought  he  had  the  means  of 
knowing,  declared  to  be  "women  all  over." 

But  all  doubt  was  removed  and  all  conjecture  set  to  rest 
by  the  coming  in  of  an  ably-dressed  friend  from  the  ex- 
ternal world,  who  mentioned  that  the  language  of  Shake- 
speare's women  was  essentially  female  language ;  that 
there  were  certain  points  and  peculiarities  in  the  English 
of  cultivated  English  women,  which  made  it  a  language 
of  itself,  which  must  be  heard  familiarly  in  order  to  be 
known.  And  he  added,  "  Except  a  greater  use  of  words 
of  Latin  derivation,  as  was  natural  in  an  age  when  ladies 
received  a  learned  education,  a  few  words  not  now  proper, 
a  few  conceits  that  were  the  fashion  of  the  time,  and  there 
is  the  very  same  English  in  the  women's  speeches  in 
Shakespeare."     He  quoted — 

"  Think  not  I  love  him,  though  I  ask  for  him ; 
'Tis  but  a  peevish  boy;  yet  he  talks  well ; 
But  what  care  I  for  words  ?  yet  words  do  well  * 

When  he  that  speaks  them  pleases  those  that  hear. 
It  is  a  pretty  youth  :  not  very  pretty  : 
But,  sure,  he  's  proud,  and  yet  his  pride  becomes  him : 
He  '11  make  a  proper  man.:  the  best  thing  in  him 
Is  his  complexion ;  and  faster  than  his  tongue 
Did  make  offence  his  eye  did  heal  it  up. 
He  is  not  very  tall ;  yet  for  his  years  he  's  tall ; 
His  leg  is  but  so  so ;  and  yet  'tis  well : 
There  was  a  pretty  redness  in  his  lip, 
A  little  riper  and  more  lusty  red 

Than  that  mix'd  in  his  cheek;  'twas  just  the  difference 
Betwixt  the  constant  red  and  mingled  damask. 
There  be  some  women,  Silvius,  had  they  mark'd  him 

39 


SHAKESPEARE, 

In  parcels  as  I  did,  would  have  gone  near 

To  fall  in  love  with  him :  but,  for  my  part, 

I  love  him  not  nor  hate  him  not ;  and  yet 

I  have  more  cause  to  hate  him  than  to  love  him : 

For  what  had  he  to  do  to  chide  at  me? 

He  said  mine  eyes  were  black  and  my  hair  black; 

And,  now  I  am  remember'd,  scorn'd  at  me : 

I  marvel  why  I  answer'd  not  again : 

But  that 's  all  one  ;  ".* 

and  the  passag'e  of  Perdita's  cited  before  about  the  daffo- 
dils that— 

"  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty ;  violets  dim, 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes 
Or  Cytherea's  breath;  " 

and  said  that  these  were  conclusive.     But  we  have  not, 
ourselves,  heard  young  ladies  converse  in  that  manner. 

Perhaps  it  is  in  his  power  of  delineating  women,  that 
Shakespeare  contrasts  most  strikingly  with  the  greatest 
master  of  the  art  of  dialogue  in  antiquity — we  mean 
Plato.  It  will,  no  doubt,  be  said  that  the  delineation  of 
women  did  not  fall  within  Plato's  plan ;  that  men's  life 
was  in  that  age  so  separate  and  predominant  that  it  could 
be  delineated  by  itself  and  apart ;  and  no  doubt  these  re- 
marks are  very  true.  But  what  led  Plato  to  form,  that 
plan  ?  What  led  him  to  select  that  peculiar  argumenta- 
tive aspect  of  life,  in  which  the  masculine  element  is  hi 
so  high  a  degree  superior?  We  believe  that  he  did  it  be- 
cause he  felt  tliat  he  could  paint  that  kind  of  scene  much 
better  than  he  could  paint  any  other.  If  a  person  will 
consider  the  sort  of  conversation  that  was  held  in  the  cool 
summer  morning,  when  Socrates  was  knocked  up  earlv 
to  talk  definitions  and  philosophy  with  Protagoras,  he  will 
feel,  not  only  that  women  would  fancy  such  dialogues  to 
be  certainly  stupid,  and  very  possibly  to  be  without  mean- 
ing, but  also  that  the  side  of  character  which  is  there  pre- 

*  As  You  Like  It,  III.  V. 
40 


THE  MAN 

sented  is  one  from  which  not  only  the  feminine  but  even 
the  epicene  element  is  nearly,  if  not  perfectly,  excluded. 
It  is  the  intellect  surveying  and  delineating  intellectual 
characteristics.  We  have  a  dialogue  of  thinking  facul- 
ties ;  the  character  of  every  man  is  delineated  by  showing 
us,  not  his  mode  of  action  or  feeling,  but  his  mode  of 
thinking,  alone  and  by  itself.  The  pure  mind,  purged  of 
all  passion  and  affection,  strives  to  view  and  describe 
others  in  like  manner ;  and  the  singularity  is,  that  the 
likenesses  so  taken  are  so  good, — that  the  accurate  copy- 
ing of  the  m.erely  intellectual  effects  and  indications  of 
character  gives  so  true  and  so  firm  an  impression  of  the 
whole  character, — that  a  daguerreotype  of  the  mind 
should  almost  seem  to  be  a  delineation  of  the  life.  But 
though  in  the  hand  of  a  consummate  artist,  such  a  way  of 
representation  may  in  some  sense  succeed  in  the  case  of 
men,  it  would  certainly  seem  sure  to  fail  in  the  case  of 
women.  The  mere  intellect  of  a  woman  is  a  mere  noth- 
ing. It  originates  nothing,  it  transmits  nothing,  it  retains 
nothing ;  it  has  little  life  of  its  own,  and  therefore  it  can 
hardly  be  expected  to  attain  any  vigour.  Of  the  lofty 
Platonic  world  of  the  ideas,  which  the  soul  in  the  old  doc- 
trine was  to  arrive  at  by  pure  and  continuous  reasoning, 
women  were  never  expected  to  know  anything.  Plato 
(though  Mr.  Grote  denies  that  he  was  a  practical  man) 
was  much  too  practical  for  that ;  he  reserved  his  teaching 
for  people  whose  belief  was  regulated  and  induced  in 
some  measure  by  abstract  investigations ;  who  had  an 
interest  in  the  pure  and  (as  it  were)  geometrical  truth  it- 
self;  who  had  an  intellectual  character  (apart  from  and 
accessory  to  their  other  character)  capable  of  being- 
viewed  as  a  large  and  substantial  existence,  Shakespeare's 
being,  like  a  woman's,  worked  as  a  whole.  He  was  ca- 
pable of  intellectual  abstractedness,  but  commonly  he  was 
touched  with  the  sense  of  earth.  One  thinks  of  him  as 
firmly  set  on  our  coarse  world  of  common  clay,  but  from 
it  he  could  paint  the  moving  essence  of  thoughtful  feel- 
ing— which  is  the  best   refinement  of   the  best  women. 

41 


SHAKESPEARE, 

Imog-en  or  Juliet  would  have  thought  little  of  the  conver- 
sation of  Gorgias. 

On  few  subjects  has  more  nonsense  been  written  than 
on  the  learning  of  Shakespeare.  In  former  times,  the 
established  tenet  was,  that  he  was  acquainted  with  the 
entire  range  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  classics,  and  famil- 
iarly resorted  to  Sophocles  and  ^schylus  as  guides  and 
models.  This  creed  reposed  not  so  much  on  any  painful 
or  elaborate  criticism  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  as  on  one 
of  the  a  priori  assumptions  permitted  to  the  indolence  of 
the  wise  old  world.  It  was  then  considered  clear,  by  all 
critics,  that  no  one  could  write  good  English  who  could 
not  also  write  bad  Latin.  Questioning  scepticism  has 
rejected  this  axiom,  and  refuted  with  contemptuous  facil- 
ity the  slight  attempt  which  had  been  made  to  verify  this 
case  of  it  from  the  evidence  of  the  plays  themselves.  But 
the  new  school,  not  content  with  showing  that  Shake- 
speare was  no  formed  or  elaborate  scholar,  propounded 
the  idea  that  he  was  quite  ignorant,  just  as  Mr.  Croker 
"  demonstrates  "  that  Napoleon  Bonaparte  could  scarcely 
write  or  read.  The  answer  is,  that  Shakespeare  wrote  his 
plays,  and  that  those  plays  show  not  only  a  very  power- 
lul,  but  also  a  very  cultivated  mind.  A  hard  student 
Shakespeare  was  not,  yet  he  was  a  happy  and  pleased 
reader  of  interesting  books.  He  was  a  natural  reader : 
when  a  book  was  dull  he  put  it  down,  when  it  looked 
fascinating  he  took  it  up,  and  the  consequence  is,  that  he 
remembered  and  mastered  what  he  read.  Lively  books, 
read  with  lively  interest,  leave  strong  and  living  recollec- 
tions ;  the  instructors,  no  doubt,  say  that  they  ought  not 
to  do  so,  and  inculcate  the  necessity  of  dry  reading.  Yet 
the  good  sense  of  a  busy  public  has  practically  discovered 
that  what  is  read  easily  is  recollected  easily,  and  what  is 
read  with  difficulty  is  remembered  with  more.  It  is  cer- 
tain that  Shakespeare  read  the  novels  of  his  time,  for  he 
has  founded  on  them  the  stories  of  his  plays ;  he  read 
Plutarch,  for  his  words  still  live  in  the  dialogue  of  the 
"  proud  Roman  "  plays ;   and  it  is  remarkable  that  Mon- 

42 


THE  MAN 

taigne  is  the  only  philosopher  that  Shakespeare  can  be- 
proved  to  have  read,  because  he  deals  more  than  any 
other  philosopher  with  the  first  impressions  of  things 
which  exist.  On  the  other  hand,  it  may  be  doubted  if 
Shakespeare  would  have  perused  his  commentators.  Cer- 
tainly, he  would  have  never  read  a  page  of  this  review, 
and  we  go  so  far  as  to  doubt  whether  he  would  have  been 
pleased  with  the  admirable  discourses  of  M.  Guizot,  which 
we  ourselves,  though  ardent  admirers  of  his  style  and 
ideas,  still  find  it  a  little  difficult  to  read; — and  what 
would  he  have  thought  of  the  following  speculations  of 
an  anonymous  individual,  whose  notes  have  been  recently 
published  in  a  fine  octavo  by  Mr.  Collier,  and.  according 
to  the  periodical  essayists,  "  contribute  valuable  sugges- 
tions to  the  illustration  of  the  immortal  bard  "  ? 

"  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

"Act  I.     Scene  I. 

"  P.  92.     The  reading  of  the  subsequent  line  has  hitherto  been 
'  "Tis  true ;  for  you  are  over  boots  in  love  ' ; 

but  the  manuscript  corrector  of  the  Folio,  1632.  has  changed  it  to 
''Tis  true;  but  you  are  over  boots  in  love.' 

which  seems  more  consistent  with  the  course  of  the  dialogue;  for 
Proteus,  remarking  that  Leander  had  been  '  more  than  over  shoes 
in  love,'  with  Hero.  Valentine  answers,  that  Proteus  was  even 
more  deeply  in  love  than  Leander.  Proteus  observes  of  the  fable 
of  Hero  and  Leander — 

'  That 's  a  deep  story  of  a  deeper  love, 
For  he  was  more  than  over  shoes  in  love.' 

\'alentine  retorts — 

''Tis  true;  but  you  are  over  boots  in  love.' 

For  instead  of  but  was  perhaps  caught  by  the  compositor  from  the 
preceding  line." 


It  is  difficult  to  fancv  Shakespeare  perusing  a  volume 

43 


of  such  annotations,   though   we  allow  that   we  admire 


SHAKESPEARE. 

them  ourselves.  As  to  the  controversy  on  his  school 
learning,  we  have  only  to  say,  that  though  the  alleged  imi- 
tations of  the  Greek  tragedians  are  mere  nonsense,  yet 
there  is  clear  evidence  that  Shakespeare  received  the  ordi- 
nary grammar-school  education  of  his  time,  and  that  he 
had  derived  from  the  pain  and  suffering  of  several  years, 
not  exactly  an  acquaintance  with  Greek  or  Latin,  but,  like 
Eton  boys,  a  firm  conviction  that  there  are  such  languages. 
Another  controversy  has  been  raised  as  to  whether 
Shakespeare  was  religious.  In  the  old  editions  it  is  com- 
monly enough  laid  down  that,  when  writing  his  plays,  he 
had  no  desire  to  fill  the  Globe  Theatre,  but  that  his  inten- 
tions wxre  of  the  following  description.  "  In  this  play, 
Cymhelinc,  Shakespeare  has  strongly  depicted  the  frail- 
ties of  our  nature,  and  the  effect  of  vicious  passions  on  the 
human  mind.  In  the  fate  of  the  Queen  we  behold  the 
adept  in  perfidy  justly  sacrificed  by  the  arts  she  had,  with 
unnatural  ambition,  prepared  for  others;  and  in  review- 
ing her  death  and  that  of  Cloten,  we  may  easily  call  to 
mind  the  words  of  Scripture,"  etc.  And  of  King  Lear 
it  is  observed  with  great  confidence,  that  Shakespeare, 
"  no  doubt,  intended  to  mark  particularly  the  afflicting 
character  of  children's  ingratitude  to  their  parents,  and 
the  conduct  of  Goneril  and  Regan  to  each  other ;  espe- 
cially in  the  former's  poisoning  the  latter,  and  laying 
hands  on  herself,  we  are  taught  that  those  who  want 
gratitude  towards  their  parents  (who  gave  them  their 
being,  fed  them,  nurtured  them  to  man's  estate)  will  not 
scruple  to  commit  more  barbarous  crimes,  and  easily  to 
forget  that,  by  destroying  their  body,  they  destroy  their 
soul  also."  And  Dr.  Ulrici,  a  very  learned  and  illegible 
writer,  has  discovered  that  in  every  one  of  his  plavs 
Shakespeare  had  in  view  the  inculcation  of  the  peculiar 
sentiments  and  doctrines  of  the  Christian  religion,  and 
considers  the  Midsummcr-Nighfs  Dream  to  be  a  speci- 
men of  the  lay  or  amateur  sermon.  This  is  what  Dr. 
Ulrici  thinks  of  Shakespeare ;  but  what  would  Shake- 
speare have  thought  of  Dr.   Ulrici?     We  believe  that 

44 


THE  MAN 

"  Via,  goodman  Dull,"  is  nearly  the  remark  which  the 
learned  professor  would  have  received  from  the  poet  to 
whom  his  very  careful  treatise  is  devoted.  And  yet, 
without  prying  into  the  Teutonic  mysteries,  a  gentleman 
of  missionary  aptitudes  might  be  tempted  to  remark  that 
in  many  points  Shakespeare  is  qualified  to  administer  a 
rebuke  to  people  of  the  prevalent  religion.  Meeting  a 
certain  religionist  is  like  striking  the  corner  of  a  wall. 
He  is  possessed  of  a  firm  and  rigid  persuasion  that  you 
must  leave  off  this  and  that,  stop,  cry,  be  anxious,  be  ad- 
vised, and,  above  all  things,  refrain  from  doing  what  you 
like,  for  nothing  is  so  bad  for  any  one  as  that.  And  in 
quite  another  quarter  of  the  religious  hemisphere,  we 
occasionally  encounter  gentlemen  who  have  most  likely 
studied  at  the  feet  of  Dr.  Ulrici,  or  at  least  of  an  equiva- 
lent Gamaliel,  and  who,  when  we,  or  such  as  we,  speaking 
the  language  of  mortality,  remark  of  a  pleasing  friend : 
''Nice  fellow,  so  and  so!  Good  fellow  as  ever  lived!" 
reply  sternly,  upon  an  unsuspecting  reviewer,  with — 
"  Sir,  is  he  an  earnest  man?"  To  which,  in  some  cases, 
we  are  unable  to  return  a  sufficient  answer.  Yet  Shake- 
speare, differing,  in  that  respect  at  least,  from  the  dis- 
ciples of  Carlyle,  had,  we  suspect,  an  objection  to  grim 
people,  and  we  fear  would  have  liked  the  society  of  Mer- 
cutio  better  than  that  of  a  dreary  divine,  and  preferred 
Ophelia  or  "  that  Juliet "  to  a  female  philanthropist  of 
sinewy  aspect.  And,  seriously,  if  this  world  is  not  all 
evil,  he  who  has  understood  and  painted  it  best  must 
probably  have  some  good.  If  the  underlying  and  al- 
mighty essence  of  this  world  be  good,  then  it  is  likely  that 
ihe  writer  who  most  deeply  approached  to  that  essence 
will  be  himself  good.  There  is  a  religion  of  week-days 
as  well  as  of  Sundays,  of  "  cakes  and  ale  "'^'  as  well  as  of 
pews  and  altar  cloths.  This  England  lay  before  Shake- 
speare as  it  lies  before  us  all,  with  its  green  fields,  and 
its  long  hedgerows,  and  its  many  trees,  and  its  great 
towns,  and  its  endless  hamlets,  and  its  motley  society,  and 

*  Twelfth  Night,  II.  iii. 
45 


SHAKESPEARE. 

its  long  history,  and  its  bold  exploits,  and  its  gathering 
power,  and  he  saw  that  they  were  good.  To  him,  perhaps, 
more  than  to  any  one  else,  has  it  been  given  to  see  that 
they  were  a  great  unity,  a  great  religious  object;  that  if 
you  could  only  descend  to  the  inner  life,  to  the  deep 
things,  to  the  secret  principles  of  its  noble  vigour,  to  the 
essence  of  character,  to  what  we  know  of  Hamlet  and 
seem  to  fancy  of  Ophelia,  we  might,  so  far  as  we  are 
capable  of  so  doing,  understand  the  nature  which  God 
has  made.  Let  us,  then,  think  of  him  not  as  a  teacher  of 
dry  dogmas,  or  a  sayer  of  hard  sayings,  but  as — 

"  A  priest  to  us  all, 
Of  the  wonder  and  bloom  of  the  world  " — * 

a  teacher  of  the  hearts  of  men  and  women  ;  one  from 
whom  may  be  learned  something  of  that  inmost  principle 
that  ever  modulates — 

"  With  murmurs  of  the  air, 
And  motions  of  the  forests  and  the  sea. 
And  voice  of  living  beings,  and  woven  hymns. 
Of  night  and  day  and  the  deep  heart  of  man."t 

We  must  pause,  lest'  our  readers  reject  us,  as  the  Bishop 
of  Durham  the  poor  curate,  because  he  was  "  mystical  and 
confused.'' 

Yet  it  must  be  allowed  that  Shakespeare  was  worldly, 
and  the  proof  of  it  is,  that  he  succeeded  in  the  world. 
Possibly  this  is  the  point  on  which  we  are  most  richly 
indebted  to  tradition.  We  see  generally  indeed  in  Shake- 
speare's works  the  popular  author,  the  successful  drama- 
tist;  there  is  a  life  and  play  in  his  writings  rarely  to  be 
found,  except  in  those  who  have  had  habitual  good  luck, 
and  who,  by  the  tact  of  experience,  feel  the  minds  of  their 
readers  at  every  word,  as  a  good  rider  feels  the  mouth  of 
his  horse.  But  it  would  have  been  difficult  quite  to  make 
out  w^hether  the  profits  so  accruing  had  been  profitably 
invested — whether  the  genius  to  create  such  illusions  was 

*  Matthew  Arnold  :  The  Youth  of  Nature.  f  Shelley  :  Alastor. 

46 


THE  MAN 

accompanied  with  the  care  and  judgement  necessary  to 
put  out  their  proceeds  properly  in  actual  life.  We  could 
only  have  said  that  there  was  a  general  impression  of 
entire  calmness  and  equability  in  his  principal  works, 
rarely  to  be  found  where  there  is  much  pain,  which  usu- 
ally makes  gaps  in  the  work  and  dislocates  the  balance  of 
the  mind.  But  happily  here,  and  here  almost  alone,  wq 
are  on  sure  historical  ground.  The  reverential  nature  of 
Englishmen  has  carefully  preserved  what  they  thought  the 
great  excellence  of  their  poet — that  he  made  a  fortune. 
It  is  certain  that  Shakespeare  was  proprietor  of  the  Globe 
Theatre — that  he  made  money  there,  and  invested  the 
same  in  land  at  Stratford-on-Avon,  and  probably  no  cir- 
cumstance in  his  life  ever  gave  him  so  much  pleasure.  It 
was  a  great  thing  that  he,  the  son  of  the  wool-comber, 
the  poacher,  the  good-for-nothing,  the  vagabond  (for  so 
we  fear  the  phrase  went  in  Shakespeare's  youth),  should 
return  upon  the  old  scene  a  substantial  man,  a  person  of 
capital,  a  freeholder,  a  gentleman  to  be  respected,  and 
over  whom  even  a  burgess  could  not  affect  the  least  supe- 
riority. The  great  pleasure  in  life  is  doing  what  people 
say  you  cannot  do.  Why  did  Mr.  Disraeli  take  the  duties 
of  the  Exchequer  with  so  much  relish?  Because  people 
said  he  was  a  novelist,  an  ad  captandnm  man,  and — mon- 
strum  horrendum! — a  Jew,  that  could  not  add  up.  No 
doubt  it  pleased  his  inmost  soul  to  do  the  work  of  the  red- 
tape  people  better  than  those  who  could  do  nothing  else. 
And  so  wdth  Shakespeare :  it  pleased  him  to  be  respected 
by  those  whom  he  had  respected  w^ith  boyish  reverence, 
but  who  had  rejected  the  imaginative  man — on  their  own 
ground  and  in  their  own  subject,  by  the  only  title  w^hich 
they  would  regard — in  a  word,  as  a  moneyed  man.  We 
seem  to  see  him  eyeing  the  burgesses  with  good-humoured 
fellowship  and  genial  (though  suppressed  and  half- 
unconscious)  contempt,  drawdng  out  their  old  stones,  and 
acquiescing  in  their  foolish  notions,  with  everything  in 
his  head  and  easy  sayings  upon  his  tongue, — a  full  mind 
and  a  deep  dark  eye,  that  played  upon  an  easy  scene — 

i7 


SHAKESPEARE.  THE  MAN 

now  in  fanciful  solitude,  now  in  cheerful  society;  now 
occupied  with  deep  thoughts,  now,  and  equally  so,  with 
trivial  recreations,  forgetting-  the  dramatist  in  the  man  of 
substance,  and  the  poet  in  the  happy  companion  ;  beloved 
and  even  respected,  with  a  hope  for  every  one  and  a  smile 
for  all. 


Self = Revelation  of  Shakespeare. 


Self=Revelation  of  Shakespeare. 

BY  LESLIE  STEPHEN. 

I  AM  reluctant  to  break  the  rule — or  what  ought  to  be 
the  rule — that  no  one  should  write  about  Shakespeare 
without  a  special  license.  Heaven-born  critics  or  thor- 
ough antiquaries  alone  should  add  to  the  pile  under  which 
his  "  honoured  bones  "  are  but  too  effectually  hidden.  I 
make  no  pretence  of  having  discovered  a  new  philo- 
sophical meaning  in  Hamlet,  or  of  having  any  light  to 
throw  upon  the  initials  "  W.  H."  I  confess  too  that, 
though  I  have  read  Shakespeare  with  much  pleasure,  I 
cannot  say  as  much  for  most  of  his  commentators.  I 
have  not  studied  them  eagerly.  I  spent,  however,  some 
hours  of  a  recent  vacation  in  reading  a  few  Shakespeare 
books,  including  j\lr.  Lee's  already  standard  Life  and 
Professor  Brandes's  interesting  Critical  Study.  The  con- 
trast between  the  two  raised  an  old  question.  Mr.  Lee, 
like  many  critics  of  the  highest  authority,  maintains  that 
we  can  know  nothing  of  the  man.  He  shows  that  we 
know  more  than  the  average  reader  supposes  of  the  ex- 
ternal history  of  the  Stratford  tovv^nsman.  But  then  he 
maintains  the  self-denying  proposition  that  such  knowl- 
edge teaches  us  nothing  about  the  author  of  Hamlet. 
Professor  Brandes,  on  the  contrary,  tries  to  show  how 
a  certain  spiritual  history  indicated  by  the  works  may  be 
more  or  less  distinctly  correlated  with  certain  passages  in 
the  personal  history.  The  process,  of  course,  involves  a 
good  deal  of  conjecture.  It  rests  entirely  upon  the  as- 
sumption that  the  works,  when  properly  interpreted,  reveal 
character ;  for  the  facts  taken  by  themselves  are  a  mani- 
festly insufficient  ground  for  more  than  a  few  negative 


SELF=REVELATION 

inferences.  If,  with  Mr.  Lee,  we  regard  this  first  step  as 
impossible  the  whole  theory  must  collapse.  Upon  his 
showing  we  learn  little  from  the  works  except  that  Shake- 
speare, whatever  he  may  have  been  as  a  man,  had  a  mar- 
vellous power  of  wearing  different  masks.  There  is  no 
reason  to  suppose  that  his  mirth  or  melancholy,  his  pa- 
triotism or  his  misanthropy,  reveal  his  own  sentiments. 
He  could  inspire  his  puppets  with  the  eloquence  which 
would  bring  down  the  house  and  direct  money  to  the  till 
of  the  Globe.  He  could  drop  his  mask  and  become  a 
commonplace  man.  of  business  when  he  applied  for  a  coat 
of  arms  or  requested  his  debtors  to  settle  their  little 
accounts. 

This  raises  the  previous  question  of  the  possibility  of 
the  general  inference  from  the  book  to  the  man.  Now  I 
confess  that  to  me  one  main  interest  in  reading  is  always 
the  communion  with  the  author.  Paradise  Lost  gives  me 
the  sense  of  intercourse  with  Milton,  and  the  Waverley 
Novels  bring  me  a  greeting  from  Scott.  Every  writer,  I 
fancy,  is  unconsciously  his  own  Boswell,  and,  however 
"  objective  "  or  dramatic  he  professes  to  be,  really  betrays 
his  own  secrets.  Browning  is  one  of  the  authorities 
against  me.  If  Shakespeare,  he  says,  really  unlocked  his 
heart  in  the  Sonnets,  why  ''  the  less  Shakespeare  he." 
Browning  declines  for  his  part  to  follow  the  example,  and 
fancies  that  he  has  preserved  his  privacy.  Yet  we  must, 
I  think,  agree  with  a  critic  who  emphatically  declares  that 
a  main  characteristic  of  Browning's  own  poetry  is  that  it 
brings  us  into  contact  with  the  real  "  self  of  the  author." 
Self-revelation  is  not  the  less  clear  because  involuntary  or 
quite  alien  to  the  main  purpose  of  a  book.  I  may  read 
Gibbon  simply  to  learn  facts;  but  I  enjoy  his  literary 
merits  because  I  recognize  my  friend  of  the  autobiography 
who  "  sighed  as  a  lover  and  obeyed  as  a  son."  I  may 
study  Darwin's  Origin  of  Species  to  clear  my  views  upon 
natural  selection ;  but  as  a  book  it  interests  me  even 
through  the  defetts  of  style  by  the  occult  personal  charm 
of  the  candid,   sagacious,   patient  seeker   for  truth.     In 


OF  SHAKESPEARE 

pure  literature  the  case  is,  of  course,  plainer,  and  I  will 
not  count  up  instances  because,  in  truth,  I  can  hardly 
think  of  a  clear  exception.  Whenever  we  know  a  man 
adequately  we  perceive  that,  though  dififerent  aspects  of  his 
character  may  be  made  prominent  in  his  life  and  his 
works,  the  same  qualities  are  revealed  in  both,  and  we 
cannot  describe  the  literary  without  indicating  the  per- 
sonal charm. 

Is  Shakespeare  the  sole  exception  ?  There  are  obvious 
difBculties  in  the  way  of  a  satisfactory  answer.  Shake- 
spearian criticism  means  too  often  reckless  competition  in 
hyperboles.  So  long  as  critics  think  it  necessary  to  shovv^ 
their  appreciative  power  by  falling  into  hysterics,  all  dis- 
tinctive characteristics  are  obliterated.  When  the  poet  is 
lost  in  such  a  blaze  of  light,  we  can  make  no  inference  to 
the  man.  Sometimes  out  of  reverence  for  his  genius  he  is 
treated  like  a  prophet  whose  inspiration  is  proved  by  his 
commonplace  character  in  other  moments.  Tlie  more 
colourless  the  man,  the  more  impossible  will  be  an  ex- 
planation, and  the  greater  will  be  the  wonder.  Some 
commentators,  again,  have  displayed  their  afifection  by 
dwelling  upon  his  proverbial  "  gentleness,"  till  they  make 
him  a  kind  of  milksop  with  no  more  of.  the  devil  in  him 
than  there  was  in  the  poet  of  The  Christian  Year.  Others 
have  been  so  impressed  by  the  vigour  of  his  fine  frenzies, 
and  the  "  irregularities  "  of  w^hich  our  forefathers  com- 
plained, that  they  describe  him  as  always  on  the  border 
of  insanity.  Such  discords  between  critics  do  not  prove 
necessarily  that  the  man  was  unknowable,  but  that  to 
know  him  a  critic  must  keep  his  head  and  be  less  anxious 
to  exhibit  his  own  enthusiasm  and  geniality  than  to  form 
a  tolerably  sane  judgement.  The  application  of  sound 
methods  happily  seems  to  be  spreading,  and  may  lead  to 
more  solid  results. 

One  objection,  indeed,  if  it  could  be  sustained,  would 
make  the  investigation  impossible  from  the  first.  Shake- 
speare, w^e  are  reminded  with  undeniable  truth,  was  a 
dramatist.     We  cannot  assume  that  he  is  responsible  for 


SELF=REVELATION 

the  opinions  which  he  formulates.  It  is  Orsino,  not  his 
creator,  who  holds  that  wives  should  be  younger  than 
their  husbands,  and  Shakespeare,  when  speaking  through 
his  puppets,  may  not  have  been  thinking  of  Anne  Hath- 
away. Some  of  us  have  personal  reasons  for  hoping  that 
when  his  characters  express  a  dislike  for  the  lean  or  for 
the  unmusical,  their  words  do  not  give  his  deliberate 
judgement.  If  this  were  a  fatal  difficulty  it  would  fol- 
low that  no  competent  dramatist  reveals  himself  in  his 
works.  Yet,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  suppose  that  drama- 
tists are  generally  quite  as  knowable  as  other  authors. 
We  learn  to  know  Ben  Jonson  from  his  plays,  almost  as 
well  as  we  know  his  namesake  the  great  Samuel.  That 
surely  is  the  rule.  A  dramatist  lets  us  know,  and  cannot 
help  letting  us  know,  what  is  his  general  view  of  his  fel- 
low creatures  and  of  the  world  in  which  they  live.  It  is 
his  very  function  to  do  so,  and  though  the  indication  may 
be  indirect,  it  is  not  the  less  significant  of  the  observer's 
own  peculiarities. 

But,  we  are  told,  Shakespeare  does  not  identify  him- 
self with  any  of  his  characters.  He  is  not  himself  either 
Falstaff  or  Hamlet.  This  too  applies  to  most  dramatists, 
but  it  certainly  suggests  a  difficulty.  The  most  demon- 
strable, though  it  may  not  be  the  highest  merit,  of  Shake- 
speare's plays  is,  I  suppose,  the  extraordinary  variety  of 
vivid  and  original  types  of  character.  The  mind  which 
could  create  a  Hamlet  and  a  Falstaff,  and  an  lago  and 
a  Mercutio  and  a  Caliban,  a  Cleopatra  and  a  Lady  Mac- 
beth and  a  Perdita,  must  undoubtedly  have  been  capable 
of  an  astonishing  variety  of  moods  and  sympathies.  That 
certainly  gives  a  presumption  that  the  creator  must  have 
been  himself  too  complex  to  be  easily  described.  The 
difficulty,  again,  is  increased  by  the  other  most  familiar 
commonplace  about  Shakespeare,  the  entire  absence  of  de- 
liberate didacticism.  Profound  critics,  it  is  true,  have  dis- 
covered certain  moral  lessons  and  philosophical  theories 
concealed  in  his  plays.  If  so,  they  must  also  admit  that 
he  concealed  them  so  cleverlv  that  he  has  had  to  wait  for 


OF  SHAKESPEARE 

a  profound  critic  to  perceive  them.  If  he  really  meant  to 
enforce  them  upon  the  vulgar  his  attempt  must  be  regarded 
as  a  signal  failure.  Anyhow,  we  are  without  one  clue 
which  is  given  by  the  didactic  waiter.  To  read  Dante  is 
to  know  whom  he  hated  and  why  he  hated  them,  and  what, 
in  his  opinion,  would  be  their  proper  place  hereafter.  To 
Shakespeare  good  men  and  bad  are  alike  parts  of  the  order 
of  Nature,  to  be  understood  and  interpreted  with  perfect 
impartiality.  He  gives  a  diagnosis  of  the  case,  not  a 
judgement  sentencing  them  to  heaven  or  hell.  His  char- 
acters prosper  or  suffer,  not  in  proportion  to  their  merits, 
but  as  good  and  bad  fortune  decides  or  as  may  be  most 
dramatically  eft"ective.  It  does  not,  indeed,  follow  that 
Shakespeare  was  without  moral  sympathies  or  ideals.  It 
would  be  as  erroneous  as  to  infer  that  a  physician  who 
describes  a  disease  accurately  is  indifferent  to  the  value  of 
health.  Shakespeare  no  doubt  held  that  lago  was  a  hate- 
ful person,  and  meant  him  to  excite  the  aversion  of  his 
hearers.  Only  he  did  not  infer,  as  inferior  waiters  are 
apt  to  do,  that  lago  ought  to  be  misrepresented.  The 
devil  ought  to  be  painted  just  as  black  as  he  is  and  not  a 
shade  blacker.  A  perfectly  impartial  analysis  of  charac- 
ter is,  surely,  the  true  method  of  showing  what  is  lovable 
in  the  virtuous  and  hateful  in  the  vicious,  and  the  man 
who  gets  angry  with  his  own  creatures,  and  denounces  in- 
stead of  explaining,  is  really  perverting  the  true  moral. 
When  Cervantes  makes  us  love  Don  Quixote  in  spite  of 
the  crack  in  his  intellect  and  the  absurdity  of  his  career, 
he  is  really  setting  forth  irt  the  most  effective  way  the 
beauty  of  the  chivalrous  character.  That,  I  take  it,  is  the 
true  artistic  method.  It  simply  displays  the  facts  and 
leaves  the  reader  to  be  attracted  or  repelled  according  to 
his  power  of  appreciating  moral  beauty  or  deformity. 
But,  undoubtedly,  so  far  as  this  method  is  characteristic 
of  Shakespeare's  work,  it  increases  our  difficulty.  These 
are  the  facts,  he  savs  :  make  what  you  can  of  them  :  I  do 
not  draw  the  moral  for  you,  or  even  denv  that  manv  very 
different  morals  mav  commend  themselves  to   different 


SELF=REVELATION 

people.  No  great  poet  can  be  without  some  implicit  mor- 
ality, though  his  morality  may  be  sometimes  very  bad.  He 
is  great  because  he  has  a  rich  emotional  nature,  and  great 
powers  of  observation  and  insight.  He  must  have  his 
own  views  of  what  are  the  really  valuable  elements  in 
life,  of  what  constitutes  true  happiness,  and  what  part  the 
deepest  instincts  play  in  the  general  course  of  affairs.  We 
have  to  translate  his  implicit  convictions  into  an  abstract 
theory  in  order  to  discover  his  moral  system.  To  do  that 
in  the  case  of  Shakespeare  would  no  doubt  be  a  specially 
difficult  and  delicate  task.  He  refuses  to  give  us  any  di- 
rect help  towards  divining  his  sympathies.  Scott,  in  his 
most  Shakespearian  moods,  has  something  of  the  same 
impartiality.  When  he  describes  an  interesting  person, 
Louis  XI.  in  Qiientin  Durzvard,  or  James  I.  in  The  For- 
tunes of  Nigel,  he  shows  a  power  of  insight,  of  making 
wicked  and  weak  men  intelligible  and  human,  which  re- 
minds us  of  Shakespeare's  methods.  He  hated  Covenant- 
ers like  a  good  Jacobite,  and  vet  he  could  describe  them 
kindly  and  sympathetically.  But  then  he  has  sympathies 
which  he  cannot  conceal.  His  love  of  the  manly,  healthy 
type  represented  in  the  Dandie  Dinmonts  and  their  like 
reveals  the  man,  and,  without  reading  Lockhart,  we  can 
see  that,  unlike  Shakespeare,  he  is  clearly  identifying  him- 
self with  some  of  his  characters. 

My  inference  then  would  be,  not  that  Shakespeare  can- 
not be  known,  but  that  a  knowledge  of  Shakespeare  must 
be  attained  through  a  less  obvious  process.  His  charac- 
ter, we  must  suppose,  was  highly  complex,  and  we  are 
without  the  direct  and  unequivocal  clues  which  enable  us 
to  feel  ourselves  personally  acquainted  with  such  men  as 
Dante  or  Milton,  to  say  nothing  of  Wordsworth  or  Byron. 
A  distinction,  however,  must  be  made  before  we  can  esti- 
mate the  weight  of  this  difficulty.  There  is  such  a  thing 
as  knowing  a  man  thorous^hlv  and  yet  being  unable  to  put 
our  knowledge  into  definite  formulre.  I  mav  know  a 
man's  face  and  the  sound  of  his  voice  well  enough  to 
swear  to  him  among  a  thousand  others,  and  yet  I  may  be 


OF  SHAKESPEARE 

totally  unable  to  describe  him  in  such  a  way  as  to  enable 
a  detective  to  pick  him  out  of  a  crowd.     I  can  say  that 
he  is  six  feet  high  and  has  a  red  beard,  but  I  cannot 
give  the  finer  marks  which  distinguish  tall  red-bearded 
men  from  each  other.     So  I  can  often  divine  instinctively 
what  my  friend  will  say  and  do  and  think  on  a  given  occa- 
sion ;   and  yet  be  quite  unable  to  give  the  reasons  for  my 
expectation.     If  I  am  not  a  trained  psychologist,  I  shall 
not   have   the  proper   terms,    or   shall   confuse    dififerent 
terms ;  and  if  I  am  a  trained  psychologist,  I  may  too  prob- 
ably be  misled  by  my  own  theories,  and  shall  certainly 
find  that  all  the  common  phrases  by  which  we  describe 
character  are  too  vague  and  shifting  to  reflect  the  vast 
variety  of  delicate  shades  of  emotional  temperament  which 
we   can   yet  recognize   in   observation.     Does   not  every 
critic  of  Shakespeare  claim  such  a  knowledge— vivid  and 
yet  difiicult  to  grasp  and  analyze  ?     He  professes  to  recog- 
nize Shakespeare's  style  ;  he  can  tell  you  confidently  which 
plavs  are  Shakespeare's  own,  and  which  he  produced  in 
collaboration  with  others  ;   he  can  point  out  the  scene  and 
even  the  particular  speech  at  which  Shakespeare  dropped 
the  pen  and  Fletcher  took  it  up.     Part  of  this  knowledge 
is  derived,  it  is  true,  from  "  objective  "  signs.     One  scene 
has  a  larger  percentage  than  others  of  verses  with  eleven 
syllables.     That  observation  requires  no  critical  insight. 
Yet  I  do  not  suppose  that  any  critic  would  admit  that  he 
was  unable  to  discriminate  qualities  too  delicate  to  be  in- 
ferred from  counting  on  the  fingers.     The  point  of  which 
I  am  speaking  corresponds  to  the  distinction   made  by 
Newman  in  the  Grammar  of  Assent  between  the  ''  Illative 
Instinct  "  and  such  formal  reasoning  as  can  be  put  into 
svllogisms.     He  illustrates  it  by  Falstaff's  "  babbling  of 
g'reen  fields."     Some  readers,   he  says,  are  certain  that 
this   was    Shakespeare's   phrase,   while   others   hold   that 
they  do  not  recognize  the  true  Shakespearian  ring.     The 
certitude  of  either  side  is  therefore  not  conclusive  for  the 
other.     Yet  the  conviction  implies  that  each  reader  has 
so  vivid  a  conception  of  certain  characteristics  that  the 


SELF=REVELATION 

verdict  "  this  is  "'  or  ''  this  is  not  Shakespearian  "  arises 
spontaneously  at  a  particular  phrase.  "  Shakespearian," 
then,  must  have  a  definite  though  not  definable  meaning. 
Something  in  the  term  of  thought,  in  the  play  of  humour, 
fits  in  or  does  not  exactly  fit  in  with  our  image,  and  we 
must  therefore  have  such  an  image — whether  like  or  un- 
like to  the  reality. 

Two  difficulties,  in  fact,  are  often  confounded :  the 
difficulty  of- knowing  and  the  difficulty  of  analyzing  and 
formulating  our  knowledge.  Language  is  too  rough  and 
equivocal  an  instrument  to  enable  us  to  communicate  to 
others  the  finer  shades  of  difference  which  we  can  clearly 
recognize.  Critics,  I  fancy,  were  it  not  for  their  charac- 
teristic modesty,  might  be  induced  by  a  skilful  cross- 
examination  to  confess  that  their  knowledge  of  Shake- 
speare is  much  more  precise  and  distinct  than  they  ven- 
ture to  claim.  If  I  had  the  skill  required  for  the  most 
difficult  form  of  literary  art,  I  should  try  to  surmount 
their  diffidence  by  a  Socratic  dialogue.  I  should  not  en- 
deavour to  reveal  new  truths  to  them,  but  endeavour,  like 
Socrates,  to  deliver  them  of  the  truths  with  which  their 
judgements  are  already  pregnant.  Much  as  critics  of  the 
poetry  differ,  they  show  a  tendency  to  converge ;  there 
are  certain  commonplaces  and  at  least  many  negations  in 
which  they  would  agree.  As  I  do  not  profess  to  be  an 
expert,  I  must  limit  myself  to  such  generalities.  What  I 
would  try  to  show  is  that  what  is  accepted  about  the 
poetry  really  implies  certain  conclusions  about  the  man. 
I  must  leave  it  to  those  who  unite  more  thorough  knowl- 
edge V'ith  greater  poetical  insight  to  fill  up  the  rough 
outlines  which  such  as  I  can  attempt  to  indicate. 

One  remark  will  be  granted.  A  dramatist  is  no  more 
able  than  anybody  else  to  bestow  upon  his  characters  tal- 
ents which  he  does  not  himself  possess.  If — as  critics 
are  agreed — Shakespeare's  creatures  show  humour, 
Shakespeare  must  have  had  a  sense  of  humour  himself. 
When  Mercutio  indulges  in  the  wonderful  tirade  upon 
Queen  Mab,  or  Jaques  moralizes  in  the  forest,  we  learn 

'8 


OF  SHAKESPEARE 

that  their  creator  had  certain  powers  of  mind  just  as 
clearly  as  if  we  were  reading  a  report  of  one  of  the  wit 
combats  at  the  "  Mermaid."  It  is  harder  to  define  those 
qualities  precisely  than  to  say  what  is  implied  by  Johnson  s 
talk  at  the  ''  Mitre,"  but  the  idiosyncrasy  is  at  least  as 
strongly  impressed  upon  such  characteristic  mental  dis- 
plays. If  we  were  to  ask  any  critic  whether  such  pas- 
sages could  be  attributed  to  Marlowe  or  Ben  Jonson,  he 
would  enquire  whether  we  took  him  for  a  fool.  If  we 
were  considering  a  bit  of  purely  scientific  exposition,  the 
inference  to  character  would  not  exist.  A  mathematician, 
I  suppose,  could  tell  me  that  the  demonstration  of  some 
astronomical  theorem  was  in  Newton's  manner,  and  the 
remark  would  not  show  whether  Xewton  was  amiable  or 
spiteful,  jealous  or  generous.  But  a  man's  humour  and 
fancy  are  functions  of  his  character  as  well  as  of  his  rea- 
son. To  appreciate  them  clearly  is  to  know  how  he  feels 
as  well  as  how  he  argues ;  what  are  the  aspects  of  life 
which  especially  impress  him,  and  what  morals  are  most 
congenial.  I  do  not  see  how  the  critic  can  claim  an  in- 
stinctive perception  of  the  Shakespearian  mode  of  thought 
without  a  perception  of  some  sides  of  his  character.  You 
distinguish  Shakespeare's  work  from  his  rivals'  as  con- 
fidently as  any  expert  judging  of  handwriting.  You 
admit,  too,  that  you  can  give  a  very  fair  account  of  the 
characteristics  of  the  other  writers.  Then  surely  you  can 
tell  me — or  at  least  you  know  "  implicitly  " — what  is  the 
quality  in  which  they  are  defective  and  Shakespeare  pre- 
eminent. 

Half  my  knowledge  of  a  friend's  character  is  derived 
from  his  talk,  and  not  the  less  if  it  is  playful,  ironical  and 
dramatic.  When  we  agree  that  Shakespeare's  mind  was 
vivid  and  subtle,  that  he  shows  a  unique  power  of  blend- 
ing the  tragic  and  the  comic,  we  already  have  some  indi- 
cations of  character ;  and  incidentally  we  catch  revela- 
tions of  more  specific  peculiarities.  Part  of  my  late  read- 
mfy;  was  a  charming  book  in  which  Mr.  Justice  Madden 
sets    forth    Shakespeare's    accurate    knowledge    of    field 


SELF=REVELATION 

sports.  It  seems  to  prove  conclusively  a  proposition 
against  which  there  can  certainly  be  no  presumption.  We 
may  be  quite  confident  that  he  could  thoroughly  enjoy  a 
day's  coursing  on  the  Cotswqld  Hills,  and  we  know  by  the 
most  undeniable  proof  that  his  sense  of  humour  was 
tickled  by  the  oddities  of  his  fellow  sportsmen,  the  Shal- 
lows and'  Slenders.  It  is  at  least  equally  clear  that  he  had 
the  keenest  enjoyment  of  charms  of  the  surrounding 
scenery.  He  could  not  have  written  M idsiunmer-N ighf s 
Dream  or  As  You  Like  It  if  the  poetry  of  the  English 
greenwood  had  not  entered  into  his  soul.  The  single 
phrase  about  the  daffodils — so  often  quoted  for  its  magi- 
cal power — is  proof  enough,  if  there  were  no  other,  of  a 
nature  exquisitely  sensitive  to  the  beauties  of  flowers  and 
of  springtime.  It  wants,  again,  no  such  confirmation  as 
Fuller's  familiar  anecdote  to  convince  us  that  Shakespeare 
could  enjoy  convivial  meetings  at  taverns,  that  he  could 
listen  to,  and  probably  join  in,  a  catch  by  Sir  Toby  Belch, 
or  make  Lord  Southampton  laugh  as  heartily  as  Prince 
Hal  laughed  at  the  jests  of  Falstaff.  Shakespeare,  again, 
as  this  suggests,  was  certainly  not  a  Puritan.  That  may 
be  inferred  by  judicious  critics  from  particular  phrases 
or  from  the  relations  of  Puritans  to  players  in  general. 
But  without  such  reasoning  we  may  go  further  and  say 
that  the  very  conception  of  a  Puritan  Shakespeare  in- 
volves a  contradiction  in  terms.  He  represents,  of  course, 
in  the  fullest  degree,  the  type  which  is  just  the  antithesis 
of  Puritanism ;  the  large  and  tolerant  acceptance  of  hu- 
man nature  which  was  intolerable  to  the  rigid  and  strait- 
laced  fanatics,  whom,  nevertheless,  we  may  forgive  in 
consideration  of  their  stern  morality.  People,  indeed, 
have  argued,  very  fruitlessly  I  fancy,  as  to  Shakespeare's 
religious  beliefs.  Critics  tell  us,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
truly,  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  show  conclusively 
from  his  works  whether  he  considered  himself  to  be  an 
Anglican  or  a  Catholic.  But  a  man's  real  religion  is  not 
to  be  defined  by  the  formula  which  he  accepts  or  inferred 
even  from  the  church  to  which  he  belongs.     His  outward 

10 


OF  SHAKESPEARE 

profession  is  chiefly  a   matter  of  accident  and  circum- 
stance,„  not  of  character.     We  may,   I   think,   be  pretty 
certain  that  Shakespeare's  rehgion,  whatever  may  have 
been  its  external  form,  included  a  profound  sense  of  the 
mystery  of  the  world  and  of  the  pettiness  of  the  little  lives 
that  are  rounded  by  a  sleep;    a  conviction  that  we  are 
such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of,  and  a  constant  sense, 
such  as  is  impressed  in  the  most  powerful  sonnets,  that 
our  present  life  is  an  infinitesimal  moment  in  the  vast 
•'  abysm  "  of  eternity.     Shakespeare,  we  know,  read  Mon- 
taigne;    and  if,  like'  Montaigne,  he  accepted  the  creed  in 
which  he  was  brought  up,  he  would  have  sympathized  in 
Montaigne's  sceptical  and  humorous  view  of  theological 
controversialists  playing  their  fantastic  tricks  of  logic  be- 
fore high  Heaven.     Undoubtedly,  he  despised  a  pedant, 
and  the  pedantry  which  displayed  itself  in  the  wranglings 
of  Protestant  and  Papist  divines  would  clearly  not  have 
escaped  his  contempt.     Critics,  again,  have  disputed  as  to 
Shakespeare's  politics;    and  the  problem  is  compHcated 
by  the  desire  to  show  that  his  politics  were  as  good  as  his 
poetrv.     Sound  Liberals  are  unwilling  to  admit  that  he 
had  aristocratic  tendencies,  because  they  hold  that  all  aris- 
tocrats are  wicked  and  narrow-minded.     It  is,  of  course, 
an  anachronism  to  transplant  our  problems  to  those  days, 
and  we  cannot  sav  what  Shakespeare  would  have  thought 
of  modern  applications  of  the  principles  which  he  ac- 
cepted.    But  I  do  not  see  how  any  man  could  have  been 
more  clearlv  what  may  be  called  aii  intellectual  aristocrat. 
His  contempt  for  the  mob  may  be  good-humoured  enough, 
but  is  surelv  unequivocal :   from  the  portrait  of  Jack  Cade 
promising,  'like  a  good  Socialist,  that  the  three-hooped  pot 
shall  have  ten  hoops,  to  the  first,  second  and  third  citizens 
who  give  a  displav  of  their  inanity  and  instability  m  Cori- 
olanus  or  Julius^ Ccusar.     Shakespeare  may  be  speaking 
dramaticallv  through  Ulysses  in  Troihts  and  Cressida  ;  but 
at  least  he  'must  have  fully  appreciated  the  argument  for 
order,  and  understood  bv  order  that  the  cultivated  and 
intelligent  should  rule  and  the  common  herd  have  as  little 

II 


SELF=REVELATION 

direct  voice  in  State  affairs  as  Elizabeth  and  James  could 
have  desired. 

When  we  have  got  so  far,  we  have  already,  as  it  seems 
to  me,  admitted  certain  attributes,  wdiich  are  as  much  per- 
sonal as  literary.  If  you  admit  that  Shakespeare  was  a 
humourist,  intensely  sensitive  to  natural  beauty,  a  scorner 
of  the  pedantry,  whether  of  scholars  or  theologians,  en- 
dowed with  an  amazingly  wide  and  tolerant  view  of 
human  nature,  radically  opposed  to  Puritanism  or  any 
kind  of  fanaticism,  and  capable  of  hearty  sympathy  with 
the  popular  instincts  and  yet  with  a  strong  persuasion  of 
the  depth  of  popular  folly,  you  inevitably  affirm  at  least 
sorne  negative  propositions  about  the  man  himself.  You 
can  say  wdth  confidence  what  are  the  characteristics  which 
were  thoroughly  antipathetic  to  him,  even  though  it  may 
be  difficult  to  describe  accurately  the  characteristics  which 
he  positively  embodied. 

Another  point  is,  it  would  seem,  too  plain  to  need  much 
emphasis.  The  author  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  was,  I  sup- 
pose, capable  of  Romeo's  passion.  We  may  "  doubt  that 
the  sun  is  fire,"  but  can  hardly  doubt  that  Shakespeare 
could  love.  In  this  case,  it  seems  to  me,  the  powder  of  in- 
tuition is  identical  with  the  emotional  power.  A  man 
would  surely  have  been  unable  to  find  the  most  memo- 
rable utterance  in  literature  of  passions  of  which  he  was 
not  himself  abnormally  susceptible.  It  may  be  right  to 
describe  a  poet's  power  as  marvellous,  but  why  should  we 
hold  it  to  be  miraculous  ?  I  agree  with  Pope's  common- 
sense  remark  about  Heloisa's  "  well-sung  woes  "  ;  *'  he 
best  can  paint  'em  wdio  can  feel  'em  most."  Surely  that 
is  the  obvious  explanation,  and  I  am  unable  to  see  why 
there  should  be  any  difficulty  in  receiving  it.  When  the 
blind  poet,  Blacklock,  described  scenery  which  he  had 
never  seen,  wise  critics  puzzled  over  the  phenomenon.  It 
was  explained  by  the  obvious  remark  that  he  was  simply 
appropriating  the  conventional  phrases  of  other  poets. 
But  when  a  poet  gives  originality  to  the  most  common- 
place of  all  themes.  I  infer  that  he  has  had  the  eyesight  or 

12 


OF  SHAKESPEARE 

■  felt  the  emotions  required  for  the  feat.  We  must,  no 
doubt,  be  careful  as  to  further  differences.  If  I  had  read 
the  poems  of  Burns  or  Byron  without  any  knowledge  of 
their  lives,  I  should  be  justified,  I  think,  in  modestly 
inferring  that  they  were  men  of  strong  passions.  I  could 
not  suppose  that  they  were  merely  vamping  up  old  mate- 
rial. No  inference  from  conduct  could  be  made  more 
conclusive  than  the  inference  from  the  fire  and  force  of 
their  poetry.  But  it  is,  of  course,  doubtful  what  effect 
might  be  produced  on  their  lives.  Byron,  brought  up 
under  judicious  and  firm  management,  might  conceivably 
have  become  an  affectionate  husband  and  a  respectable 
nobleman.  Some  men  have  greater  powers  of  self-com- 
mand than  others,  or  may  be  prevented  by  other  qualities 
of  character  from  obeying  in  practice  the  impulses  which 
govern  their  imaginations.  It  has  been  said  that  Moore, 
who  in  early  days  shocked  his  contemporaries  by  immoral 
])oetry,  lived  the  most  domestic  and  well-regulated  of 
lives ;  whereas  Rogers  was  the  most  respectable  of  poets 
and  a  striking  contrast  to  Moore  in  conduct.  The  fact, 
if  it  be  a  fact,  may  warn  us  against  hasty  conclusions. 
A  man  may  have  very  good  reasons  for  keeping  some  of 
his  feelings  out  of  his  books ;  or  may,  out  of  mere  levity, 
affect  vices  which  he  does  not  put  in  practice.  We  can 
be  sure  that  he  has  certain  propensities ;  but,  of  course, 
we  cannot  tell  how  far  circumstance  and  other  propensi- 
ties may  not  hold  them  in  check.  IMuch  smaller  men 
than  Shakespeare  are  still  very  complex  organisms.  We 
may  judge  from  this  and  that  symptom  that  they  react, 
as  a  chemist  may  say,  in  certain  ways  to  a  given  stimulus  ; 
but  to  put  all  the  indications  together,  to  say  which  are 
the  dominant  instincts  and  how  different  impulses  will 
modify  each  other  In  active  life ;  to  decide  whether  a 
feeling  which  shapes  the  ideal  world  will  have  a  corre- 
sponding force  when  it  comes  into  contact  with  realities, 
is  a  delicate  investigation.  When  an  adequate  biography 
is  obtainable,  the  answer  is  virtually  given.  The  facts 
of  Shakespeare's  life  are  as  far  as  possible  from  adequate ; 

13 


SELF=REVELAT10N 

but  we  may  ask  how  far  what  is  known  can  check  or 
confirm  inferences  from  the  works. 

This  brings  us  to  the  biographical  problem.  Minute 
students  of  Shakespeare  have  done  one  great  service  at 
least.  They  have  established  approximately  the  order  of 
his  works.  The  plays,  when  placed  in  a  chronological 
series,  show  probably  the  most  remarkable  intellectual 
development  on  record.  There  is,  I  suppose,  no  great 
writer  who  shows  so  distinctly  the  growth  and  varying 
direction  of  his  poetical  faculty.  We  watch  Shakespeare 
from  the  first  period  of  authorship ;  beginning  as  a  cob- 
bler and  adapter 'of  other  men's  works;  making  a  fresh 
start  as  a  follower  of  Marlowe,  and  then  improving  upon 
his  model  in  the  great  historical  dramas.  We  can  com- 
pare the  gaiety  and  the  ridicule  of  affectations  in  the 
early  comedies  with  the  more  serious  and  penetrative  por- 
traits of  life  in  the  later  works ;  or  trace  the  development 
of  his  full  powers  in  the  great  tragedies,  and  the  mellower 
tone  of  the  later  romantic  dramas.  If  some  knowledge 
of  Shakespeare  is  implied  in  a  comparison  between  him 
and  his  contemporaries,  there  is  still  more  significance  in 
the  comparison  with  himself.  A  century  ago  a  critic  put 
the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  at  the  end  and  The  Winter's 
Tale  at  the  beginning  of  his  career.  Such  an  inversion, 
we  now  perceive,  would  make  the  whole  history  of  his 
mental  development  chaotic  and  contradictory.  That 
Shakespeare,  whom  we  know  to  have  been  a  marvellously 
keen  observer  of  life  and  character,  and  who  lived,  as 
literary  historians  so  elaborately  demonstrate,  under  the 
most  stimulating  intellectual  and  social  conditions,  must 
have  had  his  reflections  and  learnt  some  lessons  about 
human  life  is  self-evident.  To  show  how,  for  example, 
Richard  II.,  in  which  he  followed  Marlowe,  differed  from 
the  Henry  IV.,  in  which  he  has  found  his  own  charac- 
teristic breadth  and  strength,  is  to  show  what  some  of 
those  lessons  were,  and  therefore  to  throw  light  upon  the 
man  who  learnt  them  so  quickly.  We  see  how  certain 
veins  of  reflection  become  more  prominent,  how,  for  ex- 

^ 


OF  SHAKESPEARE 

ample,  humour  checks  the  bombastic  tendency,  and  the 
broader  and  deeper  view  of  life  "  begets  a  temperance  " 
which  restrains  the  "  whirlwind  "  of  ungovernable  pas- 
sions. The  critic  who  can  exhibit  the  growth  of  a  man's 
power  implicitly  exhibits  also  the  character  which  is 
developed ;  and,  in  fact,  I  think  that  by  taking  such 
considerations  into  account  a  clearer  perception  of  the 
man  has  been  gradually  worked  out.  The  task,  no  doubt, 
would  be  easier  if  we  could  strengthen  our  case  by  some 
definite  biographical  data ;  and  the  misfortune  is  that  we 
are  tempted  to  construct  the  required  data  by  the  help  of 
audacious  conjectures.  The  natural  failure  of  such  enter- 
prises has  unduly  discredited  the  value  of  mere  modest 
inferences. 

The  hope  of  unveiling  the  man  has  in  particular  led  to 
the  controversy  over  the  Sonnets.  They  are  supposed  to 
show  that  Shakespeare  went  through  a  spiritual  crisis, 
which  is  indicated  by  the  bitterness  of  some  of  the  plays 
written  at  the  time ;  and  the  inferences  would  be  appli- 
cable if  we  could  safely  identify  the  dark  lady  with  Mis- 
tress Fitton  and  "  W.  H."  with  the  Earl  of  Pembroke. 
I  humbly  accept  Mr.  Lee's  chief  conclusions.  He  has 
insisted  upon  the  fact  that  Shakespeare  was  falling  in 
with  a  temporary  fashion,  or  infected  by  a  curious  mania 
which  led  poets  just  at  that  period  to  pour  out  sonnets  by 
the  hundred.  The  inference  that  the  Sonnets  necessarily 
imply  some  personal  catastrophe  is  thus  deprived  of  its 
force.  If  half  the  early  Victorian  poets  had  been  writing 
"  In  Memoriams,"  we  might  believe  that  Tennyson  had 
no  special  friendship  for  Arthur  Hallam,  and  had  merely 
made  a  pretext  of  a  commonplace  attachment.  It  is 
possible,  or  rather  it  is  highly  probable,  that  Shakespeare 
took  some  real  bit  of  personal  historv  for  a  text,  though 
many  of  the  Sonnets  are  simply  variations  upon  estab- 
lished poetical  themes.  But  we  cannot  say  that  his  emo- 
tion must  have  been  caused  by  some  thrilling  events  when 
it  is  at  least  equally  likely  that  he  merely  took  a  trifling 
event  as  a  pretext  for  expressing  his  emotions.     Shake- 

15 


SELF=REVELATION 

speare  was  certainly  dramatist  enough  to  discover  a  mo- 
tive for  poetry  in  a  commonplace  experience.  Tlie  at- 
tempted identifications  do  little  more  than  illustrate  a 
common  fallacy.  The  impossibility  of  conclusively 
proving  a  negative  is  confounded  with  the  conclusive 
proof  of  the  positive.  ''  It  is  just  possible,"  becomes  "  it 
is  certainly  true."  The  whole  Pembroke-Fitton  hypothe- 
sis rests  (as  Air.  Lee  seems  to  show)  upon  the  interpre- 
tation of  the  famous  initials.  The  fact  that  a  nobleman 
had  an  intrigue  with  a  lady  about  the  time  when  the 
S 0)1  nets,  or  some  of  them,  may  have  been  written,  cannot 
prove  that  they  refer  to  the  intrigue.  Shakespeare  could 
hardly  have  managed  to  write  at  a  period  when  some 
intrigue  was  not  going  on.  If,  then,  "  W.  H."  did  not 
mean  \Mlliam  Herbert,  the  peg  on  which  the  whole  argu- 
ment hangs  is  struck  out.  Now  "  Mr.  W.  H."  could  not 
possibly  suggest  the  Earl  to  any  contemporary,  and,  in 
fact,  did  not  suggest  him  to  any  one  for  more  than  two 
centuries.  That,  Professor  Brandes  seems  to  think, 
strengthens  the  case,  because  the  dedication  would  natu- 
rally be  reticent.     The  argument  recalls  the  old  retort : — 

My  wound  is  great,  because  it  is  so  small : 
Then  it  were  greater  were  it  none  at  all ! 

If  there  had  been  no  dedication,  the  proof  apparently 
would  have  been  conclusive,  because  the  reticence  would 
have  been  absolute.  The  true  argument  is  surely  simple. 
If  there  were  otherwise  very  strong  reasons  for  believing 
in  the  Pembroke  theory,  it  might  be  conceivable  that  the 
initials  were  suggested  by  association,  though  it  would 
still  be  odd  that  reticence  pushed  so  far  did  not  go  a  step 
further.  In  the  absence  of  such  reasons,  the  obscurity 
cannot  of  itself  be  any  ground  for  con\iction.  People 
forget  how  frequent  are  much  closer  and  yet  purely  acci- 
dental coincidences  ;  but  when  there  is  a  chance  of  the 
glory  of  a  discovery  of  such  a  bit  of  personal  history, 
"  trifles  light  as  air  "  become  demonstrative  to  enthusiastic 
worshippers. 

i6 


OF  SHAKESPEARE 

There  is  a  more  fundamental  objection  to  the  whole 
theory.  Were  it  proved  that  the  Sonnets  refer  to  the  con- 
jectured history,  the  fact  would  be  interesting,  but  would 
hardly  throw  much  light  upon  our  problem.  It  is  sup- 
posed to  suggest  a  cause  for  Shakespeare's  supposed  pes- 
simistic mood.  To  take  a  parallel  case,  we  may  find  an 
explanation  of  Swift's  misanthropy  in  his  long  ordeal  of 
disappointed  ambition.  There  is  no  doubt  whatever  that 
Swift's  writings  express  a  misanthropy  as  savage  as  that 
of  Timon  or  Thersites ;  and  on  the  other  side,  there  is 
no  doubt  that  his  career  was  calculated  to  sour  his  nature. 
Putting  the  history  of  the  man  and  his  works  together, 
both  become  the  more  intelligible.  The  fierce  indignation 
shown  by  the  author  is  explained  and  palliated  by  the 
life  of  the  man.  If  Shakespeare  had  suddenly  retired 
from  the  stage  and  taken  to  writing  pamphlets  like  the 
Drapier's  Letters  or  the  ^Martin  Marprelate  tracts,  we 
might  admit  the  probability  of  some  events  which  em- 
bittered his  life.  But  then  the  conspicuous  fact  is  that 
his  life  ran  on  as  far  as  we  can  tell  with  perfect  smooth- 
ness. Xobody  can  prove  that  he  did  not  love  ]Vlistress 
Fitton;  bu#it  is  quite  clear  that,  if  he  did,  it  did  not 
prevent  him  from  making  money,  buying  Xew  Place, 
setting  up  as  a  gentleman  and  continuing  a  thoroughly 
prosperous  career.  The  passion  clearly  did  not  dislocate 
his  career.  Therefore,  even  if  the  alleged  fact  be  true, 
it  had  no  permanent  bearing  on  his  life.  On  the  other 
side,  there  is  no  proof  of  anything  in  the  works  to  require 
explanation.  Critics  have  indeed  shown  that  at  one  period 
pessimistic  sentiments  (to  speak  roughly)  become  more 
prominent  than  before  or  afterwards.  But  we  must,  in 
the  first  place,  make  the  proper  allowance  for  the  dra- 
matic condition.  He  may  have  continued  the  "  Thersites  " 
or  "  Timon  "  vein  because  it  was  popular  or  because  it 
suited  the  acting  of  one  of  his  ''  fellows."  And  in  the 
next  place  the  whole  argument  that  a  man  must  be  ^ 
gloomy  because  he  writes  of  horrors  or  indulges  in  misan- 
thropical  tirades  is  questionable.     Sometimes  the  opposite 

17 


SELF=REVELATION 

theory  Is  more  plausible.  When  we  are  young  and  our 
nerves  strong  we  can  bear  excitement  which  bec?omes 
painful  as  our  spirits  fail ;  and  in  old  age  we  like  happy 
conclusions  and  soothing  imagery,  precisely  because  we 
are  less  cheerful.  In  any  case,  the  works  admittedly  lose 
the  pessimistic  tone  in  the  later  years  ;  and  the  presump- 
tion is  that  if  Shakespeare  suffered  from  any  moral  con- 
vulsion he  w^as  fortunate  enough  to  be  thoroughly  cured. 
The  conjectured  story  is  required,  if  required  at  all,  by 
the  Sonnets  alone.  When  we  make  proper  allowance  for 
the  degree  in  which  they  were  suggested  by  the  contem- 
porary fashion  and  were  imitations  of  other  poets  or 
simple  variations  of  commonplace  themes,  the  necessity 
for  believing  in  any  romance  at  all  vanishes.  Thus  there 
are  not  two  histories,  literary  and  personal  which  explain 
each  other,  but  two  histories,  both  of  which  rest  upon  con- 
jecture. Even  if  the  conjecture  be  accepted  in  either  case, 
the  one  thing  that  is  clear  is  that  the  results  were  transi- 
tory. I  can  therefore  accept  Mr.  Lee's  opinion  that  the 
story  may  be  put  out  of  account  altogether  when  we  are 
trying  to  understand  the  man  in  his  works. 

The  more  modest  inference  however  remains.  If  we 
can  infer  from  his  poetry  that  Shakespeare  could  be  in 
love,  we  can  surely  infer  with  equal  confidence  that  he 
could  feel  the  emotions  which  embody  themselves  in  pes- 
simism. He  had,  one  cannot  doubt,  satisfied  the  familiar 
condition  of  acquaintance  with  the  heavenly  powers.  He 
knew  what  it  was  to  eat  his  bread  with  sorrow  and  pass 
his  nights  In  weeping.  No  one,  I  suppose,  ever  read  the 
famous  catalogue  of  the  evils  which  made  him  pine  for 
restful  death,  or  the  reference  to  the  degrading  Influences 
of  his  profession,  without  feeling  that  a  real  man  is  speak- 
ing to  us  from  his  own  experience.  The  poetical  ''  intui- 
tion," as  I  must  again  hold,  does  not  supersede  the  neces- 
sity for  assuming  the  intense  sensibility  of  which  It  Is 
1^  surely  a  product.  When  Thackeray,  In  the  little  poem 
Vanitas  Vanitatum,  almost  repeats  Shakespeare's  cata- 
logue of  the  evils  which  made  him  pine  for  restful  death, 


OF  SHAKESPEARE 

as  a  comment  upon  the  saying  of  the  ''Weary  King 
Ecclesiast,"  I  know  from  his  biography  that  he  had  gone 
through  corresponding  trials.  I  infer  that  Shakespeare 
had  felt  the  emotions  which  he  expressed  with  unequalled 
intensity.  When  we  recall  the  main  facts  of  his  career, 
the  society  in  which  he  had  lived,  the  events  of  which  he 
had  been^a  close  spectator,  and  admit,  to  put  it  gently, 
that  he  was  a  man  of  more  than  average  powers  of  mind 
and  feeling,  the  a  priori  probability  that  he  had  gone 
through  trying  experiences  is  pretty  strong :  and  though 
we  know  none  of  the  details  we  can  hardly  suppose  that 
he  got  through  life  without  abundant  opportunities  for 
putting  Hamlet's  question  as  to  the  value  of  life.  This 
indeed  suggests  to  some  critics  that  the  argument  ought 
to  be  inverted.  The  life  so  far  from  explaining  the  genius 
makes  it,  as  some  people  have  thought,  a  puzzle.  "  I  can- 
not," says  Emerson,  "marry  this  fact"  (the  fact  that 
Shakespeare  was  a  jovial  actor  and  manager)  "to  his 
verse."  The  best  of  the  world's  poets  led  an  "  obscure 
and  profane  life,  using  his  genius  for  the  public  amuse- 
ment." Obscure  and  profane  are  perhaps  rather  harsh 
epithets  ;  but  they  suggest  the  problem :  Is  there  any  real 
incompatibility  between  Shakespeare's  conduct  and  the 
theory  of  life  implied  by  his  writings? 

I  leave  a  full  answer  to  the  accomplished  critic  whom  I 
desiderate  but  do  not  try  to  anticipate.  Yet,  keeping  to 
the  region  of  tolerably  safe  commonplaces,  I  fancy  that 
this  supposed  antithesis  really  admits  of,  or  rather  sug- 
gests, a  natural  mode  of  conciliation.  Emerson  laments, 
what  we  all  admit,  that  Shakespeare  was  not  a  preacher 
with  a  mission.  He  had  no  definite  ethical  system  to 
inculcate;  and,  moreover,  so  far  as  we  can  define  his 
moralitv,  it  was  not  such  as  would  satisfy  the  saint.  If 
he  clearly  did  not  agree  with  John  Knox,  we  may  doubt 
whether  he  would  have  appreciated  St.  Francis.  Martyrs 
and  ascetics  would  have  been  out  of  place  in  his  world. 
The  exalted  idealist  despises  fact :  he  is  impressive  pre- 
cisely because  his  doctrine  is  impracticable  :  the  ideal  may 

19 


SELF=REVELATION 

stimulate  what  is  best  in  us,  but  it  is  too  refined  and 
exalted  to  be  accepted  by  the  mass.  But  Shakespeare 
does  not  idealize  in  the  sense  of  neglecting  the  actual. 
He  is  intensely  interested  in  the  world  as  it  is,  the  world 
moved  by  the  great  forces  of  love,  hate,  jealousy,  am- 
bition, pride,  and  patriotism.  He  "  idealizes  "  so  far  as  he 
has  a  keener  insight  than  any  one  into  the  corresponding 
types  of  character,  but  he  does  not  care,  so  far  as  we  can 
see,  for  the  religious  enthusiast  who  retires  to  a  hermitage 
or  scornfully  denounces  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the 
devil.  The  men  in  whom  he  takes  an  interest  have  for- 
gotten that  they  ever  renounced  these  powers ;  they  are 
soldiers,  courtiers,  and  statesmen,  who  give  us  the  secret 
of  the  ideal  Raleighs  and  Essexes  and  Burleighs  of  his 
own  day.  The  virtues  of  purity  or  self-devotion  are  left 
chiefly  to  the  women,  who  are  the  most  charming  by 
contrast  with  the  world  of  force  and  passion  in  which 
they  move  ;  though  now  and  then  a  Cleopatra  or  a  Lady 
Macbeth  shows  that  a  woman  can  be  interesting  by  join- 
ing in  the  rude  struggle.  This,  of  course,  is  to  say  that 
Shakespeare  is  able  to  interpret  in  the  most  vivid  way  the 
characteristics  of  a  period  of  extraordinary  intellectual 
and  social  convulsion.  But  his  interpretation  shows  also 
individual  peculiarities  which  distinguish  him  from  others 
who  experience  a  similar  internal  influence.  There  is,  I 
think,  one  distinct  moral  doctrine  even  in  Shakespeare, 
and  one  which  is  a  corollary  from  this  position.  Hamlet 
states  it  in  explaining  his  regard  for  Horatio,  the  man 

"  Whose  blood  and  judgement  are  so  well  commingled 
That  they  are  not  a  pipe  for  fortune's  finger 
To  sound  what  stop  she  please.     Give  me  that  man 
That  is  not  passion's  slave,  and  I  will  wear  him 
In  my  heart's  core,  ay,  in  my  heart  of  heart, 
As  I  do  thee." 

In  a  world  so  full  of  passion  and  violence,  the  essential 
condition  of  happiness  is  the  power  of  keeping  your  head. 
They,  as  he  says  in  a  remarkable  sonnet,  "  who,  moving 

20 


OF  SHAKZSPEARt: 

others,  are  themselves  as  stone,"  are  the  right  inheritors 
of  "  Heaven's  graces/'  The  one  character  who,  as  com- 
mentators agree,  represents  a  personal  enthusiasm,  is 
Henry  A\,  and  Henry  V^.'s  special  peculiarity  is  his  super- 
lative self-command.  It  is  emphasized  even  at  some  cost 
of  dramatic  propriety.  Critics  at  least  have  complained 
of  the  soliloquy  [i  Henry  IJ\,  I.  ii.]  beginning 

"  I  know  you  all,  and  will  a  while  uphold 
The  unyoked  humour  of  your  idleness," 

in  v^hich  the  prince  expresses  a  deliberate  intention  of 
throwing  off  his  wild  companions.  He  is  talking  to  the 
audience,  it  is  suggested,  and  should  not  have  so  clear  a 
theory  of  motives  which  he  would  scarcely  avow  to  him- 
self. I  fancy  indeed  that  many  young  gentlemen  have 
indulged  in  similar  excuses  for  the  process  of  sowing 
their  wild  oats ;  and  the  main  peculiarity  of  Henry  V. 
is  that  he  really  means  them  and  keeps  to  his  resolution. 
Shakespeare  obviously  expects  us  to  approve  the  exile  of 
Falstaff,  and  rather  scandalizes  readers  who  have  fallen 
in  love  with  that  disreputable  person.  A  similar  moral 
is  implied  in  others  of  the  most  characteristic  plays. 
Shakespeare,  for  example,  sympathizes  most  heartily  and 
unmistakably  with  the  pride  of  Coriolanus  and  the  pas- 
sionate energy  of  Mark  Antony.  They  are  admirable  and 
attractive  because  they  have  such  hot  blood  in  their  veins ; 
but  come  to  grief  because  the  blood  is  not  "  commingled  " 
with  judgement.  The  really  enviable  thing,  he  seems  to 
say,  would  be  to  unite  the  two  characteristics ;  to  be  full 
of  energy  which  shall  yet  be  always  well  in  hand  ;  to  have 
unbounded  strength  of  passion  and  yet  never  to  be  the 
slave  of  passion. 

If  this  be  a  characteristic  impression  it  is  an  obvious 
suggestion  that  it  is  illustrated  by  Shakespeare's  life.  The 
young  lad  from  the  country  had  the  same  temptations  as 
Robert  Greene  and  Christopher  Marlowe.  He  did  not 
escape  them  by  any  coldness  of  temperament  or  inability 
to  appreciate  the  pleasures  of  tlie  town.     He  may,  as  two 


SELF  REVELATION 

or  three  stories  suggest,  have  given  way  to  weaknesses 
which  would  account  for  some  of  the  expressions  of 
remorse  in  the  Sonnets.  Anyhow,  he  had  retained  enough 
prudence  and  self-command  to  avoid  the  fate  of  a  Pistol 
or  a  Falstaff.  He  became  a  highly  respectable  man  as 
well  as  a  world-poet.  If  he  caught  some  stains  from  bad 
company,  they  were,  as  I  may  leave  the  critics  to  demon- 
strate, superficial.  The  appreciation  of  pure  and  lofty 
qualities  develops  instead  of  declines  as  years  go  on.  It 
surely  cannot  be  said  that  an  eye  for  the  main  chance  is 
inconsistent  with  the  poetical  character.  The  conven- 
tional poet,  of  course,  lives  in  dreamland,  and  is  an  inca- 
pable man  of  business.  But  then  it  is  the  specialty  of 
Shakespeare,  that  if  he  could  dream,  he  must  have  been 
most  keenly  awake  to  a  living  world  of  men.  Interest  in 
and  insight  into  our  fellow  creatures  is  surely  a  good 
qualification  for  business.  Voltaire  was  a  superlative 
man  of  business.  Goethe  knew^  the  value  of  a  good 
social  position.  Pope  was  a  keen  and  successful  money- 
maker. Dickens  showed  a  similar  capacity.  Such  cases 
may  show  that  men  can  reconcile  literary  genius  with 
business  aptitudes.  In  one  respect  they  may  fall  short  of 
the  case.  They  do  not  imply  the  actual  preference  of 
"  gain  "  to  "  glory "  attributed  to  Shakespeare.  The 
closer  parallel  is,  of  course,  Scott.  If  Scott's  enjoyment 
of  Abbotsford  led  to  his  ruin,  while  Shakespeare's  more 
modest  ambition  was  satisfied  by  New  Place,  the  differ- 
ence may  have  been  that  in  the  earlier  period  the  arts  of 
manufacturing  paper  credit  were  not  so  well  understood. 
Still,  Scott's  estimate  of  the  really  valuable  element  of  life 
naturally  suggests  Shakespeare.  He  held  that  the  man 
of  action  was  superior  to  the  man  of  letters.  He  wondered 
that  the  Duke  of  Wellington  should  condescend  to  an 
interest  in  the  author  of  a  few  "  bits  of  novels."  He 
meant  frankly  to  make  money  by  providing  harmless 
amusement ;  but  he  did  not  fancy  that  the  achievements 
of  a  novelist  were  comparable  to  the  winning  of  battles^ 
or  the   making  of  laws.     Shakespeare,   we  may   guess. 


OF  SHAKESPEARE 

would  have  agreed.  Like  Scott,  he  held  aloof  from 
literary  squabbles,  whether  from  good-nature,  or  from 
worldly  wisdom,  or  a  sense  of  the  pettiness  of  such  cal- 
culations. He  had  his  literary  vanity,  but  it  was  to  be 
satisfied  by  the  poems  and  by  the  circulation  of  the 
Sonnets  in  manuscript.  The  plays  were  in  the  first  in- 
stance pot-boilers.  He  could  not  help  putting  his  power 
into  them  when  a  situation  laid  hold  of  his  imagination  ; 
but  the  haste,  the  frequent  flagging  of  interest,  the  curious 
readiness  with  which  he  drops  an  interesting  character  or 
accepts  an  unsatisfactory  catastrophe,  tends  to  show  a 
singular  indifference.  In  the  greatest  play,  as  in  Othello, 
the  inspiration  lasts  throughout ;  but  in  most  he  does  not 
take  the  trouble  to  keep  up  to  the  highest  level. 

I  need  not  ask  whether  the  opinions  attributed  to  Scott 
and  Shakespeare  are  defensible.  Some  people,  I  know, 
consider  that  ''  devotion  to  art  "  is  the  cardinal  virtue,  and 
that  it  is  better  to  turn  out  a  good  poem  and  starve  than 
to  write  down  to  the  public  and  pay  your  bills.  That  is 
an  old  controversy  ;  but,  at  any  rate,  Shakespeare's  view 
is  characteristic.  He  was  never,  blind  to  the  humourist's 
point  of  view,  and  humour  has  its  questionable  ethical 
quality.  It  helps  some  people  to  see  the  charm  of  the 
"  simple  faith  miscalled  simplicity,"  and  Shakespeare's 
cordial  appreciation  of  a  fool  shows  one  side  of  an  amiable 
disposition.  But  a  saint  can  hardly  be  a  humourist.  It  is 
his  nature  to  take  things  seriously,  and  to  believe  (bold 
as  it  appears)  in  the  power  of  sermons.  The  humourist 
sees  with  painful  distinctness  the  folly  of  the  wise  and  the 
weakness  of  the  hero  and  the  general  perversity  of  for- 
tune. He  may  be  capable  of  enthusiasm,  or,  at  least,  sym- 
pathy, with  the  enthusiastic ;  but  he  feels  that  there  is 
always  a  lurking  irony  In  the  general  order  of  things. 
He  is  specially  conscious  of  the  vanity  of  his  own  ambi- 
tion, and  aware  that  his  highest  success  makes  a  very 
small  ripple  on  the  great  ocean  of  existence.  Shakespeare 
had  the  good  (though  not  rare)  fortune  of  living  before 
his  commentators.     His  head,  therefore,  was  not  turned, 

23 


SELF=REVELATION 

and  he  held,  we  may  suppose,  that  to  defeat  the  Armada 
was  a  more  important  bit  of  work  than  to  amuse  the  audi- 
ence at  the  Globe.  He  could  feel,  indeed,  the  irony  with 
which  fate  treats  the  great  men  of  action.  Masterful 
ambitions  lead  to  catastrophes,  and  in  the  political  world, 
where  order  and  subordination  are  the  essentials,  even 
the  ideal  hero  who  can  be  calm  in  the  storm,  and  hold  his 
own  amidst  the  struggling  elements,  is  not  much  the  better 
for  it  personally.  Henry  V.  is  still  but  a  m^an  made  to 
bear  the  blame  of  all  mishap,  and  ''  subject  to  the  breath 
of  every  fool."  He  has  nothing  to  show  for  it,  ''  save 
ceremony,"  and  cannot  sleep  so  soundly  as  the  vacant- 
minded  slave.  So  the  Spanish  minister  is  said  to  have 
told  the  king:  "Your  Majesty  is  but  a  ceremony,"  an 
essential  part,  indeed,  of  the  framework  of  the  State,  but 
not  superior  in  personal  happiness  to  the  ordinary  human 
being. 

That,  it  seems  to  me,  points  to  the  most  obvious  solu- 
tion of  the  supposed  contrast  between  the  man  and  the 
author.  Nobody  was  more  keenly  alive  to  every  vanity 
of  enjoyment,  or  more  capable  of  sympathizing  with  the 
passions  and  ambitions  of  all  the  amazingly  vigorous  life 
that  was  going  on  around  him.  He  can  be  poet  and  lover 
and  sportsman,  a  boon  companion,  and  watch  the  great 
game  that  is  played  in  the  court  or  in  the  wars.  He  can 
act  as  they  come  every  part  in  Jaques'  famous  speech, 
always  with  an  eye  to  the  end  of  the  strange,  eventful 
history ;  take  everything  as  it  comes,  and  yet  ask,  "  What 
is  it  worth  ?  "  Never  forget,  he  seems  to  have  replied, 
that  life  is  very  short,  and  man  very  small,  and  the  pleas- 
ure appropriate  to  each  stage  has  drawbacks,  and  will 
disappear  altogether  as  the  powers  decline.  And  by  the 
time  you  are  fifty  it  will  be  well  to  have  a  comfortable 
little  place  of  your  own  in  the  quiet  country  town  endeared 
by  youthful  memories. 

If  everything  that  I  have  said  should  be  granted  there 
would  be  great  gaps  in  our  knowledge  of  Shakespeare. 
We  could  only  fill  them  by  the  help  of  data  no  longer 

24 


OF  SHAKESPEARE 

ascertainable.  We  do  not  know  what  scrapes  he  may 
have  got  into ;  only  that  he  must  have  got  out  of  them : 
nor  how  much  he  cared  for  his  wife  and  children,  or  how 
he  behaved  in  business  transactions,  or  whether  he  was 
too  obsequious  to  his  patrons.  If  such  questions  could 
be  answered  we  might  know  a  great  deal  more  of  him. 
Yet  I  think  also  that  some  very  distinct  personal  qualities 
are  sufficiently  implied.  Shakespeare's  life  suggests  a 
problem.  We  have,  on  the  one  hand,  a  man  abnormally 
sensitive  to  all  manner  of  emotions,  and  having  an  un- 
rivalled power  of  sympathy  with  every  passion  of  human 
nature.  On  the  other  hand,  though  exposed  to  all  the 
temptations  of  a  most  exciting  "  environment,"  he  accom- 
plishes a  prosperous  and  outwardly  commonplace  career. 
He  could  emerge  from  the  grosser  element,  no  doubt, 
because  his  powers  of  intellect  and  imagination  raised 
him  above  the  level  of  the  sensualist  whose  tastes  he 
sometimes  condescended  to  gratify.  But  he  could  not 
be  a  Puritan,  because  their  stern  morality  was  radically 
opposed  to  the  aesthetic  enjoyment  to  which  he  was  most 
sensitive.  He  cared  little  for  the  sestheticism  of  a  dif- 
ferent and  more  sentimental  type,  which  condemns  as 
worldly  the  great  passions  and  emotions  which  are  the 
really  moving  forces  of  the  world.  He  sympathizes  far 
too  heartily  with  human  loves  and  hatreds  and  political 
ambitions.  But  then  he  cannot,  like  Marlowe  or  Chap- 
man, sympathize  unequivocally  with  the  heroic  when  it 
becomes  excessive  and  overstrained.  The  power  of 
humour  keeps  him  from  the  bombastic  and  the  affected, 
and  he  sees  the  facts  of  life  too  clearly  not  to  be  aware 
of  the  vanity  of  human  wishes ;  the  disappointments  of 
successful  ambition  and  the  emptiness  of  its  supposed 
rewards.  He  is  profoundly  conscious  of  the  pettiness  of 
human  hfe  and  of  the  irony  of  fate — of  which,  indeed,  he 
had  plenty  of  instances  before  him.  This,  I  fancy,  im- 
plies personal  characteristics  which  fall  in  very  well,  so 
far  as  they  can  be  grasped,  with  what  we  know  of  the  life. 
Be  a  Romeo  while  you  can ;   love  is  delightful  when  you 

25 


SELF=REVELATION  OF  SHAKESPEARE 

are  young;  only  think  twice  before  you  buy  your  dram 
of  poison.  As  you  grow  older  be  a  soldier,  a  hero,  or  a 
statesman,  or,  if  you  can  be  nothing  better,  be  a  play- 
wright, so  long  as  the  inspiration  comes  with  spontaneous 
and  overpowering  force.  But  always  remember  to  keep 
your  passions  in  check,  and  don't  forget  that  the  prize, 
even  if  you  win  it,  may  turn  to  ashes  in  your  mouth.  Fate 
is  always  playing  ugly  tricks,  punishing  the  reckless,  and 
exposing  illusions.  The  struggle  is  fascinating  while  it 
lasts  because  it  rouses  the  energies ;  but  when  the  ener- 
gies decay  the  position  which  it  has  won  loses  its  charm. 
Literary  glory,  though  one  may  talk  about  it  in  sonnets, 
is  a  trifle.  Your  rivals  are  many  of  them  very  good 
fellows,  and  make  excellent  society;  it  is  both  pleasant 
and  prudent  to  be  on  good  terms  with  them,  and  nothing 
is  so  contemptible  as  the  rivalry  of  authors.  But,  after 
all,  success  only  means  a  position  among  jealous  depen- 
dents of  great  men,  who  themselves  are  very  apt  to  get 
into  the  Tower  and  even  to  the  scaffold.  When  youthful 
passions  have  grown  feeble,  and  the  delight  of  being  ap- 
plauded by  the  mob  has  rather  palled  upon  one,  the  best 
thing  will  be  to  break  the  magical  wand  and  sit  down 
with,  we  will  hope,  "  good  Mistress  Hall  "  for  a  satis- 
factory IMiranda,  at  Stratford-upon-Avon.  Though  we 
can  no  longer  write  ballads  to  our  mistress'  eyebrow,  we 
can  heartily  appreciate  gentle,  pure,  and  obedient  woman- 
hood, and  may  hope  that  some  specimens  may  be  found, 
while  we  still  enjoy  a  chat  and  a  convivial  meeting  with 
an  old  theatrical  friend.  This  view  of  life  suggests,  I 
think,  a  very  real  person,  and  does  not  go  beyond  what  is 
substantially  admitted  by  literary  critics. 


26 


The  English  Drama, 


The  English  Drama/ 

BY  RICHARD  GRANT  WHITE. 

The  English  drama,  hke  the  Greek,  has  a  purely  re- 
ligious origin.  The  same  is  true  of  the  drama  of  every 
civilized  people  of  modern  times.  It  is  worthy  of  par- 
ticular remark  that  the  theatre,  denounced  by  church- 
men and  by  laymen  of  eminently  evangelical  profession, 
as  base,  corrupting,  and  sinful,  not  in  its  abuse  and  its 
degradation,  but  in  its  very  essence,  should  have  been 
planted  and  nourished  by  churchmen,  having  priests  for 
its  first  authors  and  actors,  and  having  been  for  centuries 
the  chief  school  of  religion  and  of  morals  to  an  unlet- 
tered people.  Theatrical  representations  have  probably 
continued  without  interruption  from  the  time  of  ^schy- 
lus.  Even  in  the  dark  ages,  which  we  look  back  upon  too 
exclusively  as  a  period  of  gloom,  tumult,  and  bloodshed- 
ding,  people  bought  and  sold,  and  were  married  and 
given  in  marriage,  and  feasted  and  amused  themselves 
as  we  do  now ;  and  we  may  be  sure  that  among  their 
amusements  dramatic  representations  of  some  sort  were 
not  lacking.  The  earliest  dramatic  performances  in  the 
modern  languages  of  Europe  of  which  we  have  any  rec- 
ord or  tradition  were  representations  of  the  most  striking 
events  recorded  in  the  Hebrew  Scriptures  and  in  the 
Christian  Gospels,  of  some  of  the  stories  told  in  the 
Pseudo  Evangelium,  or  Spurious  Gospel,  or  of  legends 
of  the  saints.  On  the  continent  these  were  called  Mys- 
teries ;    In   England  both   Mysteries  and   Miracle-plays. 

*  An  account  of  the  Rise  and  Progress  of  the  English  Drama 
to  the  time  of  Shakespeare. 


THE  ENGLISH 

The  ancient  Hebrews  had  at  least  one  play.  It  was 
founded  upon  the  exodus  of  their  people  from  Egypt. 
Fragments  of  this  play  in  Greek  iambics  have  been  pre- 
served to  modern  times  in  the  works  of  various  authors. 
The  principal  characters  are  Moses,  Zipporah,  and  God 
in  the  Bush.  The  author,  one  Ezekiel,  is  called  by  Scal- 
iger  the  tragic  poet  of  the  Jews.  His  work  is  referred  by 
one  critic  to  a  date  before  the  Christian  era ;  others  sup- 
pose that  he  was  one  of  the  Seventy  Translators ;  but 
Warton,  my  authority  in  this  instance,  supposes  that  he 
wrote  his  play  after  the  destruction  of  Jerusalem,  hoping 
by  its  means  to  warm  the  patriotism  and  revive  the  hopes 
of  his  dejected  countrymen. 

The  Eastern  Empire  long  clung  to  all  the  glories  to 
which  its  name,  its  language,  and  its  position  gave  it  a 
presumptive  title ;  and  the  tragedies  of  Sophocles  and 
Euripides  were  performed  after  some  fashion  at  Constan- 
tinople until  the  fourth  century.  At  this  period  Gregory 
Nazianzen,  archbishop,  patriarch,  and  one  of  the  fathers 
of  the  church,  banished  the  pagan  drama  from  the  Greek 
stage,  and  substituted  plays  founded  on  subjects  taken 
from  the  Hebrew  or  the  Christian  Scriptures.  St.  Gregory 
wrote  many  plays  of  this  kind  himself :  and  Warton  says 
that  one  of  them,  called  Xpicrroz  TJaax^'^y  or  Christ's 
Passion,  is  still  extant.  In  this  play,  which,  according 
to  the  Prologue,  was  written  in  imitation  of  Euripides, 
the  Virgin  Mary  was  introduced  upon  the  stage,  making 
then,  as  far  as  wx  know,  her  first  appearance.  St.  Greg- 
ory died  about  A.  D.  390.  His  dramatic  productions 
more  than  rivalled  his  other  theological  writings  in  the 
favour  of  the  people ;  for,  as  Warton  also  mentions,  St. 
Chrysostom,  who  soon  succeeded  Gregory  in  the  see  of 
Constantinople,  complained  that  in  his  day  people  heard 
a  comedian  with  much  more  pleasure  than  a  minister  of 
the  gospel.  St.  Chrysostom  held  the  see  of  Constanti- 
nople from  A.  D.  398  to  A.  D.  404.  In  this  quarter  also 
another  kind  of  dramatic  representation — that  of  mum- 
mery or  masking — developed  itself  in  a  Christian  or  a 


DRAMA 

modern  form.  It  is  known  that  many  of  the  Christian 
festivals  which  have  come  down  to  us  from  the  dark  ages 
were  the  fruits  of  a  grafting  of  Christian  legends  upon 
pagan  ceremonies — a  contrivance  by  which  the  priests 
supposed  that  they  had  circumvented  the  heathen,  who 
would  more  easily  give  up  their  religion  than  their  feasts 
and  their  holidays.  And  the  introduction  of  religious 
mumming  and  masking  by  Theophylact,  patriarch  of  Con- 
stantinople, about  the  year  990,  has  been  reasonably  at- 
tributed to  a  design  of  giving  the  people  a  Christian  per- 
formance which  they  could  and  would  substitute  in  place 
of  the  Bacchanalian  revels.  He  is  said  by  an  historian  of 
the  succeeding  generation  to  have  "  introduced  the  prac- 
tice which  prevails  even  at  this  present  day  of  scandaliz- 
ing God  and  the  memory  of  his  saints,  on  the  most  splen- 
did and  popular  festivals,  by  indecent  and  ridiculous 
songs,  and  enormous  shoutings,  .  .  .  diabolical 
dances,  exclamations  of  ribaldry,  and  ballads  borrowed 
from  the  streets  and  brothels."  The  Feast  of  Fools  and 
the  Feast  of  Asses — the  latter  of  which  was  instituted  in 
honour  of  Balaam's  beast — had  this  origin.  Such  ming- 
ling of  revelry  and  religion  as  these  Feasts,  and  of  amuse- 
ment and  instruction  in  the  faith  as  the  Mysteries,  suited 
both  the  priestly  and  the  popular  need  of  the  time ;  and 
they  soon  found  their  way  westward,  and  particularly  into 
France.  There,  not  long  after,  the  Feast  of  Asses  was 
performed  in  this  manner :  The  clergy  walked  on  Christ- 
mas day  in  procession,  habited  to  represent  Moses,  David, 
the  prophets,  other  Hebrews,  and  Assyrians.  Balaam, 
with  an  immense  pair  of  spurs,  rode  on  a  wooden  ass, 
which  enclosed  a  speaker.  Virgil  was  one  of  the  proces- 
sion, w^hich  moved  on,  chanting  versicles  and  dialoguing 
in  character  on  the  birth  of  Christ,  through  the  body  of 
the  church,  until  it  reached  the  choir.  The  fairs  of  those 
days,  which  were  the  great  occasions  of  profit  and  amuse- 
ment, offered  opportunities  for  the  performance  of  these 
''  holy  farces,"  or  of  the  soberer  mysteries  or  miracle- 
plays,  of  which  the  priests  did  not  fail  to  avail  them- 


THE  ENGLISH 

selves ;    and   thus   this    rude    form    of    reHgious    drama 
spread  gradually,  but  not  slowly,  throughout  Europe. 

Warton  and  his  editor  Price  found  that  religious  plays 
were  performed  in  Italy  at  a  period  very  much  earlier 
than  either  Riccoboni  or  Crescembini,  the  principal  Italian 
authorities  on  this  subject,  supposed;  in  fact,  that  they 
were  common  as  early  as  1250.  In  the  natural  order  of 
things  this  species  of  performance  would  pass  from  Italy 
to  France  and  from  France  to  England;  and  the  suppo- 
sition that  it  was  brought  into  the  latter  country  across  the 
channel  is  supported  by  the  fact  that  there  is  evidence  that 
the  first  religious  plays  performed  in  England  were  trans- 
lations from  the  French.  Some  yet  extant  have  passages 
in  that  language  scattered  through  them — a  fact  which 
can  be  most  reasonably  accounted  for  by  the  supposition 
that  these  isolated  passages  are  parts  of  the  original,  left 
untranslated  in  the  manuscripts  which  have  come  down 
to  us.  It  has  even  been  supposed  that  the  first  miracle- 
plays  produced  in  England  were  performed  in  French. 
Possil^ly  this  supposition  is  well  founded  ;  but  we  may 
be  sure  that  these  plays  soon  received  an  English  dress. 
For  the  miracle-plays  were  used  by  the  priesthood  for 
the  religious  instruction,  not  only  of  those  who  could  not 
read — among  whom  were  the  Norman  nobles  who  could 
understand  French — but  also,  and  chiefly,  of  the  middle 
and  lower  classes,  to  whom  French  was  almost  as  in- 
comprehensible as  the  Latin  in  which  their  prayers  were 
vicariously  mumbled.  Miracle-plays  seem  to  have  been, 
in  some  measure  at  least,  the  fruit  of  the  same  laudable 
desire  on  the  part  of  the  Roman  Catholic  priesthood  for 
the  instruction  of  their  people  in  religious  truth,  to 
which  we  owe  the  rhymed  homilies  or  gospel  paraphrases 
of  the  thirteenth  century,  in  which  the  lesson  of  the  day, 
read  of  course  in  Latin,  was  translated,  amplified,  and 
illustrated  in  octosyllabic  rhymes,  which  were  read  to  the 
people  by  the  priest.  Six  ancient  manuscript  collections 
of  these  homilies  are  known  to  exist ;  and  in  the  prologue 
to  the  oldest  one  of  them,  which  is  of  the  fourteenth  cen- 


I 


DRAMA  . 

tury,  and  which  has  recently  been  printed,  the  writer  ex- 
pressly says  that  he  has  undertaken  his  task  of  thus 
preaching  in  English  that  all  may  understand  what  he 
says,  because  both  clerks  and  ignorant  men  understand 
English,  but  all  men  cannot  understand  Latin  and  French. 
The  earliest  performance  of  a  miracle-play  in  England 
of  which  any  record  has  been  discovered  took  place  within 
about  ten  years  previous  to  1119.  The  play,  founded 
upon  the  legend  of  St.  Catherine,  was  written  by  Geoff- 
rey, afterwards  Abbot  of  St.  Alban's,  before  he  became 
abbot,  and  w^as  performed  in  Dunstable.  So  says  Mat- 
thew Paris  in  his  Lives  of  the  Abbots,  which  was  written 
before  1240.  Geoffrey,  a  Norman  monk  and  a  member 
of  the  University  of  Paris,  became  Abbot  of  St.  Alban's 
in  1 1 19.  But  his  miracle-play  was  no  novelty;  for 
Budasus,  the  historian  of  the  University  of  Paris,  tells 
us  that  it  was  at  that  time  common  for  teachers  and 
scholars  to  get  up  these  performances.*  Fitz-Stephen, 
Thomas  a  Becket's  contemporary  and  biographer,  also 
records  that  in  London,  during  the  life  or  soon  after  the 
death  of  that  stiff-necked  priest,  who  was  put  to  death  in 
1 1 70,  there  were  performed  in  London  religious  plays 
representing  the  miracles  wrought  by  saints,  or  the  suffer- 
ings and  constancy  of  martyrs,  f  These  miracle-plays  or 
mysteries  derived  their  name  from  the  fact  that,  whether 
founded  upon  the  Old  or  the  New  Testament,  the  spu- 
rious Gospel  attributed  to  Nicodemus,  or  church  tradi- 
tion, they  almost  without  exception  represented  a  display 
of  supernatural  power.  Made  the  means  of  teaching  not 
only  religious  history,  but  religious  dogmas,  these  miracle- 
plays  often  represented  a  display  of  supernatural  power 
in  the  support  of  those  dogmas ;  and  naturally  that  one 
most  in  need  of  such  extra-rational  aid,  transubstantia- 
tion,  received  most  of  this  bolstering.     One  of  the  oldest 

*  I  have  seen  neither  Matthew  Paris's  Historia  Major,  etc.,  nor 
Biuiscns's  Historia  Univcrsitatis  Parisicnsis.  Both  are  cited  by 
Markland  and  Warton,  who  are  my  authorities. 

t  Fitz-Stephens's  Description  of  London,  ed.  Pegge,  1773,  p.  73. 


THE  ENGLISH 

manuscript  miracle-plays  extant,  the  manuscript  being,  in 
the  judgement  of  experts,  as  old  as  1460-70,  is  upon  this 
subject.  It  is  called  Tlic  Play  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament, 
and  dramatizes  a  miracle  said  to  have  been  worked  in  the 
forest  of  Aragon  in  the  year  1461  ;  but  doubtless  the  tra- 
dition is  older.  Among  the  characters  are  Christ,  five 
Jews,  a  bishop,  a  curate,  a  Christian  merchant,  and  a 
physician.  The  merchant  steals  the  Host  and  sells  it  to 
the  Jews,  on  condition  that  they  shall  become  Christians 
if  they  find  that  it  has  miraculous  powers.  To  test  its 
character,  they  stab  it ;  it  bleeds,  and  one  of  them  goes 
mad  at  the  sight :  one  attempts  to  nail  it  to  a  post ;  he 
has  his  hand  torn  off :  the  physician  is  called  in,  but  after 
a  comic  scene  is  turned  out  as  a  quack.  They  then  boil 
the  Host,  and  the  water  turns  to  blood.  Finally,  they 
try  to  consume  it  in  a  blazing  furnace,  when  the  oven 
bursts  asunder  and  an  image  of  Christ  arises,  before 
which  the  Jews  prostrate  themselves,  and  become  Chris- 
tians on  the  spot.  The  bishop  now  forms  a  procession, 
enters  the  Jew's  house,  and  addresses  the  image,  which 
changes  to  bread  again.  He  then  "improves  the  occasion  " 
offered  by  this  comic-pantomime-like  performance,  in  an 
epilogue,  which  is  a  rhymed  homily  on  transubstantia- 
tion. 

There  were  neither  theatres  nor  professional  actors  in 
England,  indeed  in  Europe,  at  the  period  when  miracle- 
plays  first  came  in  vogue.  Their  first  performers  were 
clergymen  ;  the  first  stages  or  scaffolds  on  which  they 
were  presented  were  set  up  in  churches.  Evidence  that 
this  was  the  case  has  been  discovered  in  such  profusion 
that  it  is  needless  to  specify  it  more  particularly  in  this 
place,  than  to  remark  that  councils  and  prelates  finally 
found  it  necessary  to  forbid  such  performances,  either 
in  churches  or  by  the  clergy.  After  the  exclusion  of  the 
clergy  from  the  religious  stage,  lay  brothers,  parish 
clerks,  and  the  hangers-on  of  the  priesthood  naturally 
took  the  place  of  their  spiritual  fathers,  under  whose  su- 
perintendence,  or,   to  speak  precisely,   managernent.   the 

6 


DRAMA 

miracle-plays  were  brought  out.  Excluded  from  the 
church  itself,  like  the  strange  Danse  Macabre,  or  Dance 
of  Death,  like  that  dance  the  miracle-play  found  fitting 
refuge  in  the  churchyard.  But  it  was  finally  forbidden 
within  all  hallowed  precincts,  and  was  then  presented 
upon  a  movable  scaffold  or  pageant,  which  was  dragged 
through  the  town,  and  stopped  for  the  performance  at 
certain  places  designated  by  an  announcement  made  a 
day  or  two  before.  At  last  the  presentation  of  these  plays 
fell  entirely  into  the  hands  of  laymen,  and  the  handi- 
craftsmen became  their  actors ;  the  members  of  the  va- 
rious guilds  undertaking  respectively  certain  plays  which 
they  made  for  the  time  their  specialty.  Thus  the  Shear- 
men, or  Tailors,  would  represent  one.  the  Cappers  an- 
other, and  so  with  the  Smiths,  the  Skinners,  the  Fish- 
mongers, and  others.  In  the  Chester  series  Xoah's  Flood 
was  very  appropriately  assigned  to  the  Water  Dealers 
and  Drawers  of  the  Dee.  It  is  almost  needless  to  remark 
that  the  female  characters  were  always  played  bv  strip- 
lings and  young  men.  Women  did  not  appear  upon  the 
English  stage  until  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  centurv. 
It  would  seem  that  the  priests  appeared  only  as  amateurs, 
and  that  their  performances  were  "gratuitous.  But  when 
the  laymen,  or  at  least  when  the  handicraftsmen,  under- 
took the  business,  they  were  paid,  as  we  know  by  the 
memorandums  of  account  still  existing.* 

*  The  following  items  of  account  are  taken  from  one  of  many 
memorandums  discovered  by  Mr.  Sharp  in  the  archives  of  Cov- 
entry, and  published  in  his  Essay  on  the  Coventry  Mysteries: — 

]\Id.  payd  to  the  players  for  corpus  christi  daye 
Imprimis,  to  God  ijs 

ItmtoCayphas  iijs  iiij<J 

ItmtoHeroude  iij**  iiij^ 
ItmtoPilatt  is  wyff  ijs 

Itmtothe  Bedull  iiijs 
Itmtoone  of  the  knights  ij^ 

Itm  to  the  devyll  and  Judas  xviij^ 


THE  ENGLISH 

The  oldest  manuscript  of  an  English  miracle-play 
known  to  exist  is  that  of  The  Harrowing  of  Hell,  which 
is  among  the  Harleian  MSS.  in  the  British  Museum. 
This  manuscript  is  believed  to  have  been  written  about 
1350;  but  that  date  of  course  does  not  help  us  to  deter- 
mine the  period  when  the  play  was  composed,  or  give  it 
priority  in  this  respect  to  others  which  have  been  pre- 
served only  in  more  modern  writing.  The  Harrozving  of 
Hell  is  supposed  with  probability  to  have  been  one  of  a 
series;  and  its  subject,  the  descent  of  Christ  into  hell  for 
the  purpose  of  bringing  away  thence  the  saints  and 
prophets,  has  its  place  in  collections  or  series  which  have 
from  their  completeness  greater  interest  and  imiportance. 

The  three  most  important  sets  of  miracle-plays  in  our 
language  are  known  as  the  Townley,  the  Coventry,  and 
the  Chester  collections.  The  Townley  collection  is  sup- 
posed to  have  belonged  to  Widkirk  Abbey,  and  is  hence 
sometimes  called  the  Widkirk  collection.  The  manu- 
script, in  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Collier,  is  of  the  time  of 
Henry  VL*  The  Coventry  collection  is  so  called  because 
there  is  reason  to  believe  that  it  was  the  property  of  the 
Gray  Friars  of  Coventry,  who  were  famous  for  the  per- 
formance of  miracle-plays  at  the  feast  of  Corpus  Christi. 
The  principal  part  of  the  manuscript  copy  extant  was 
written  in  the  year  1468,  as  appears  by  that  date  upon  one 

*  The  following  are  the  titles  of  the  thirty  plays  in  the  Townley 
series:  I.  The  Creation  and  the  Rebellion  of  Lucifer.  II.  Mac- 
tatio  Abel.  III.  Progressus  Noae  cum  Filiis.  IV.  Abraham.  V. 
Jacob  and  Esau.  VI.  Processus  Prophetarum.  VII.  Pharao. 
VIII.  Caesar  Augustus.  IX.  Annunciato.  X.  Salutatio  Eliza- 
bethae.  XL  Pastorum.  XII.  Alia  eorundem.  XIII.  Oblatio 
Magorum.  XIV.  Fugatio  Josephi  et  Marse  in  Egiptum.  XV. 
Magnus  Herodus.  XVI.  Purificatio  Marice.  XVII.  Johannes 
Baptista.  XVIII.  Conspiratio  Christi.  *XIX.  Colaphizatio.  XX. 
Flagellatio.  XXI.  Processus  Crucis.  XXIL  Processus  Talen- 
torum.  XXIII.  Extractio  Animarum.  XXIV.  Ressurectio 
Domini.  XXV.  Peregrini.  XXVI.  Thomas  Judi^e.  XXVII. 
Ascensio  Domini.  XXVIII.  Judicium.  XXIX.  Lazarus.  XXX. 
Suspensio  Judse. 

8 


DRAMA 

page  of  the  volume.*  The  Chester  series,  of  which  there 
are  three  existing  manuscript  copies,  the  oldest  only  of  the 
year  1600,  belonged  to  the  city  of  Chester.  Its  author 
was  one  Randle,  a  monk  of  Chester  Abbey.  They  were 
played  upon  Whitsunday  by  the  tradesmen  of  that  city, 
and  Mr.  IMarkam,  one  of  the  earliest,  and,  in  the  phrase  of 
his  day,  most  ingenious  writers  upon  this  subject  has 
pretty  clearly  established  that  they  were  first  produced 
in  1268,  four  years  after  the  establishment  of  the  feast  of 
Corpus  Christi,  under  the  auspices  of  Sir  John  Arneway, 
mayor  of  Chester. f     A  brief  analysis  of  some  of  the  plays 

*  The  Coventry  series  contains  forty-two  plays,  upon  the  fol- 
lowing subjects:  I.  The  Creation.  II.  The  Fall  of  Man.  III.. 
The  Death  of  Abel.  IV.  Noah's  Flood.  V.  Abraham's  Sacrifice. 
VI.  Moses  and  the  Ten  Tables.  VII.  The  Genealogy  of  Christ. 
VIII.  Anna's  Pregnancy.  IX.  Mary  in  the  Temple.  X.  Mary's 
Betrothment.  XI.  The  Salutation  and  the  Conception.  XII. 
Joseph's  Return.  XIII.  The  Visit  to  Elizabeth.  XIV.  The  Trial 
of  Joseph  and  Mary.  XV.  The  Birth  of  Christ.  XVI.  The 
Adoration  of  the  Shepherds.  XVII.  The  Adoration  of  the  Magi. 
XVII I.  The  Purification.  XIX.  The  Slaughter  of  the  Innocents. 
XX.  Christ  disputing  in  the  Temple.  XXI.  The  Baptism  of 
Christ.  XXII.  The  Temptation.  XXIII.  The  Woman  taken  in 
Adultery.  XX^IV.  Lazarus.  XXV.  The  Council  of  the  Jews. 
XXVI.  The  Entry  into  Jerusalem.  XXVII.  The  Last  Supper. 
XXVIII.  The  Betraying  of  Christ.  XXIX.  King  Herod.  XXX. 
The  Trial  of  Christ.  XXXI.  Pilate's  Wife's  Dream.  XXXII. 
The  Crucifixion.  XXXIII.  The  Descent  into  Hell.  XXXIV.  The 
Burial  of  Christ.  XXXV.  The  Resurrection.  XXXVI.  The 
three  Marys.  XXXVII.  Christ  appearing  to  Mary  Magdalen. 
XXXVIII.  The  Pilgrims  of  Emmaus.  XXXIX.  The  Ascension. 
XL.  Descent  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  XLI.  The  Assumption.  XLII. 
Doomsday. 

t  The  Chester  series  contains  but  twenty-four  plays,  upon  the 
following  subjects:  I.  The  Fall  of  Lucifer.  II.  De  Creatore 
Mundi.  III.  De  Deluvio  Noae.  IV.  De  Abrahamo  Melchisedech, 
et  Loth.  V.  De  Mose  et  Rege  Balak,  et  Balaam  Propheta.  VI. 
De  Salutatione  at  Nativitate  Salvatoris.  VII.  De  Pastoribus 
Greges  pascentibus.  VIII.  De  Tribus  Regibus  Orientalibus.  IX. 
De  Oblatione   Tertium   Regum.      X.  De   Occisione   Innocentium. 


THE  ENGLISH 

of  the  Coventry  series  will  give  a  correct  notion  of  the 
character  of  these  queer  compositions. 

A  prologue,  in  stanzas,  spoken  alternately  by  three 
vexillators,  tells  in  detail  the  subjects  of  the  forty-two 
plays.  The  first.  The  Creation,  is  opened  by  God,  who, 
after  declaring  in  Latin  that  he  is  alpha  and  omega,  the 
beginning  and  the  end,  goes  on  in  English  to  assert  his 
might  and  his  triune  existence,* and  then  announces  his 
creative  intentions.  A  chorus  of  angels  then  sing  in 
Latin  the  Tibi  oimies  angeli,  etc.,  of  the  Te  Deum.  Luci- 
fer next  appears,  and  asks  the  angels  whether  they  sing 
thus  in  God's  honour,  or  in  his,  asserting  that  he  is  the 
most  worthy.  The  good  angels  declare  for  God  ;  the  bad 
for  Lucifer.  God  then  dooms  him  to  fall  from  heaven 
to  hell.  Lucifer  submits  to  his  sentence  without  mur- 
muring, and  expresses  his  emotion  only  in  a  manner  most 
likely  to  deprive  the  scene  of  any  dignity  it  might  other- 
wise have  exhibited.  The  second  play,  The  Fall  of  Man, 
opens  with  a  speech  by  Adam  and  a  reply  by  Eve,  in 
which  they  set  forth  their  happy  condition  and  the  com- 
mand concerning  the  tree  of  knowledge  of  good  and  evil. 
The  serpent  then  appears,  and  tempts  Eve  to  violate  this 
command.  The  action,  if  action  it  must  be  called,  fol- 
lows in  the  most  servile  manner,  and  with  no  expansion, 
the  narrative  in  Genesis  ;  and  Adam  and  Eve  are  expelled 
from  paradise. "^^    It  is  clear  that  the  representatives  of  the 

XL  De  Purificatione  Virginis.  XII.  De  Tentatione  Salvatoris. 
XIII.  De  Chelidomo  et  Resurrectio  Lazari.  XIV.  De  Jesii  in- 
trante  Domum  Simeonis  Leprosi.  XV.  De  Coena  Domini.  XVI. 
De  Passione  Christi.  XVII.  De  Descensu  Christi  ad  Inferos. 
XVITT.  De  Resurrectione  Jesii  Christi.  XIX.  De  Christo  ad 
Caslelhim  Emmaus.  XX.  De  Ascensione  Domini.  XXI.  De 
Electione  Matthae.  XXII.  Ezekiel.  XXIII.  De  Adventu  Anti- 
christi.  XXIV.  De  Judicio  Extreme. 
*  Here  is  Eve's  lamentation  : — 

Eva.  Alas  !  alas !  and  wele  away, 

That  evyr  towchyd  I  the  tre ; 
I  wende  as  wrecche  in  welsome  way, 
In  blake  busshys  my  boure  xal  be. 

10 


DRAMA 

types  of  our  race  appeared  upon  the  stage  innocently  free 
from  "  the  troublesome  disguises  that  we  wear  "  ;  and  that 
they  afterward  faithfully  followed  the  Hebrew  law- 
giver's narrative  in  the  use  of  fig  leaves.*  In  the  third 
play,  Cain  and  Abel,  the  only  noteworthy  points  are,  first, 
that  Cain  speaks  very  disrespectfully  of  Adam  and  his 
counsels,  saying  that  he  cares  not  a  hair  if  he  never  sees 
him ;  and  next  that,  wdien  Abel's  offering  is  accepted  and 
consumed  by  fire,  Cain  breaks  out  into  abuse  of  him,  call- 
ing him  a  "  stinking  losel/'f     This,  by  the  way,  is  one  of 

In  paradys  is  plente  of  playe, 

ffayr  frutys  ryth  gret  plente. 
The  3atys  be  schet  with  Godys  keye. 
My  busbond  is  lost  because  of  me. 
Leve  spowse  now  thou  fonde, 
Now  stomble  we  on  stalk  and  ston. 
My  wyt  awey  is  fro  me  gon. 
Wrythe  on^to  my  necke  bon 

With  hardnesse  of  thin  honde. 
*  In  the  Chester  miracle-play  the  stage  direction  is  "Here  shall 
Adam  and  Eve  stand  nackede  and  shall  he  not  ashamed."     In  tlie 
Coventry  play  Adam  speaks  thus  immediately  after  he  has  eaten 
the  apple : — 

Adam  dicet  sic. 
Alas  !  alas  !  ffor  this  fals  dede, 

My  fleshy  frend  my  fo  I  fynde, 
Schameful   synne   doth  us  unhede, 

I  se  us  nakyd  before  and  behynde. 
Our  lordes  wurd  wold  we  not  drede, 

Therefore  we  be  now  caytyvys  unkynde. 
Oure  pore  prevytes  ffor  to  hede. 

Somme  fifygge-levys  fayn  wolde  I  fynde, 
ffor  to  hyde  oure  schame. 
Womman,  ley  this  leff  on  thi  pryvyte, 
And  with  this  leff  I  xal  hyde  me, 
Gret  schame  it  is  us  nakyd  to  se, 

Oure  lord  God  thus  to  grame. 
t  Cain's  speech,  which  here  follows,  will  give  a  notion  of  the 
language  and  the  action  of  the  play  at  the  point  of  highest  in- 
terest : — 

II 


THE  ENGLISH 

the  few  representations  of  contemporary  manners  fur- 
nished by  these  miracle-plays.  If  we  accept  them  as  truth- 
ful in  this  regard,  we  must  credit  our  forefathers  with  a 
ready  resort  to  foul  language  when  they  were  angered. 
Afterward,  in  the  play  on  Noah's  Flood,  Lamech  calls  a 
young  man  "  a  stinking  lurdane,"  and  in  that  on  the 
Woman  taken  in  Adultery,  the  Scribes  and  Pharisees  call 
her  forth  to  be  taken  to  judgement  in  language  more 
pharisaic  than  decent.  The  Townley  mystery,  which 
represents  the  first  fratricide,  is  even  more  grotesque  and 
indecent  than  that  in  the  collection  which  we  are  ex- 
amining. Cain  comes  upon  the  stage  with  a  plough  and 
team,  and  quarrels  with  his  ploughboy  for  refusing  to 
drive  the  oxen.  Abel  enters,  bids  speed  the  plough  to 
Cain,  and  in  reply  is  told  to  do  something  quite  unmen- 
tionable. After  Abel  is  killed,  the  boy  counsels  flight 
for  fear  of  the  bailiffs.  Cain  then  makes  a  mock  proc- 
lamation, which  his  boy  blundei*ingly  repeats ;  and  after 
this  clownish  foolery,  Cain  bids  the  audience  farewell 
before  he  goes  to  hell.  The  personages  in  the  fourth 
play,  Noah's  Flood,  are  God,  Noah  and  his  wife,  his  three 
sons  and  their  wives,  an  angel,  Cain,  Lamech,  and  a 
young  man.  Noah  and  his  family  talk  pharisaic  mo- 
rality for  about  the  first  third  of  the  play.  God  then 
declares  his  displeasure,  and  that  he  "'  wol  be  vengyd  " ; 
to  which  end  he  will  destroy  all  the  world,  except  Noah 
and  his  family.     The  angel  announces  the  coming  flood 

Caym.  What?  thou  stynkyng  losel,  and  is  it  so? 
Doth  God  the  love  and  hatyht  me? 
Thou  xalt  be  ded  I  xal  the  slo, 

Thi  Lord  thi  God  thou  xalt  nevyr  se  ! 
Tything  more  xalt  thou  nevyr  do, 

With  this  chavyl  bon  I  xal  sle  the, 
Thi  deth  is  dyht,  thi  days  be  go, 

Out  of  myn  handys  xalt  thou  not  fle, 
With  this  strok  I  the  kylle.— 
Now  this  boy  is  slayn  and  dede, 
O  hym  I  xal  nevyr  more  han  drede, 
He  xal  hereafter  nevyr  ete  brede, 

With  this  gresse  I  xal  him  hylle. 


DRAMA 

to  Noah,  and  bids  him  build  a  ship  to  save  his  house- 
hold, and  "  of  every  kynds  bestes  a  cowpyl."  Noah  and 
his  family  go  out  to  build  the  ship,  and  Lamech  enters 
blind  and  conducted  by  a  young  man.  In  spite  of  his 
infirmity,  at  the  suggestion  of  his  guide,  he  shoots  at  a 
supposed  beast  in  a  bush ;  but,  like  another  hapless  per- 
son known  to  rhyme  who  '*  bent  his  bow,"  he  hits  what 
he  did  not  shoot  at,  and  kills  Cain,  who  mysteriously  hap- 
pens to  be  in  the  bush.  Aroused  to  wrath,  and  moved  by 
fear  of  the  fate  predicted  of  him  who  should  slay  Cain, 
Lamech  kills  the  young  man  vv^ho  had  misled  him  into 
shooting  at  the  beast.  He  goes  out,  and  Noah  comes  in 
with  his  ship — "  ct  statim  intrat  Noe  cuui  navi  cantantes 
[sic]."  This  ship,  as  we  learn  from  the  direction  in  the 
corresponding  play  of  the  Chester  Mysteries,  was  cus- 
tomarily painted  over  with  figures  of  the  beasts  supposed 
to  be  within,  as  if  they  had  struck  through,  and  come  out 
like  an  eruption.  In  thai  play,  too,  and  also  in  the  corre- 
sponding Townley  play,  Noah's  wife  refuses  to  enter  the 
ark.  Indeed,  in  those  plays  she  is  represented  as  an  ar- 
rant scold.  In  the  first  scene  she  berates  Noah,  who  gives 
her  as  good  as  she  sends,  and  both  swear  roundly  by  the 
Virgin  ]\Iary ;  and  as  to  going  into  the  ark,  the  patriarch, 
"  the  secunde  fathyr,"  as  he  styles  himself,  edified  the 
female  part  of  the  audience  by  fairly  flogging  his  wife  on 
board  with  a  cart- whip.  .  The  flood  comes  on  (we  have 
returned  to  the  Coventry  plays)  ;  Noah  and  his  wife  speak 
thirty  lines  of  dialogue,  and  then  he  says : — 

"  xlti  days  and  nightes  hath  lasted  tliys  rayn, 

And  xlti  days  this  grett  flood  begynnyth  to  slake ; 
This  crowe  xal  I  sende  out  to  seke  sum  playn. 
Good  tydynges  to  brynge  this  message  I  make." 

The  crow  does  not  return,  and  the  dove  is  sent,  "  qua 
redeiinte  cum  rauio  z'iride  olivcc''  as  the  stage  direction 
says,  Noah  and  his  family  leave  the  ark,  singing,  "  Mare 
videt  et  fiigit,"  etc. 

The   fourteenth  play,   which   represents   The   Trial  of 
Joseph  and  Mary  on  accusations  based  upon  the  latter 's 

13 


THE  ENGLISH 

mysterious  pregnancy,  is  opened  by  a  crier,  who  sum- 
mons the  jurors  and  people  who  have  causes  to  come  into 
court.  Although  the  trial  is  supposed,  of  course,  to  take 
place  in  Palestine  before  the  Christian  era,  it  is  presided 
over  by  "  my  lorde  the  buschop,"  and  the  people  sum- 
moned are  English  folk  of  the  lower  class,  whose  sur- 
names have  plainly  been  given  to  them  on  account  of  their 
occupation  or  their  personal  traits/^  The  crier  lets  us 
into  a  judge's  secret,  by  warning  those  who  have  causes 
to  be  tried  to  put  money  in  their  purses,  or  their  cause 
may  speed  the  worse.  Plainly  there  were  properties,  and 
even  machinery,  upon  the  stage  at  this  rude  and  early 
period;  and,  indeed,  the  lists  of  properties  (for  they 
seem  always  to  have  been  so  called)  which  have  been  pre- 
served show  that  no  small  pains  were  taken  to  portray  the 
glories  and  the  horrors  of  the  various  scenes  presented. 
The  seventeenth  play.  The  Adoration  of  the  Magi,  intro- 
duces the  most  famous  character  in  these  dramas — Herod. 
He  is  always  represented  in  them  not  only  as  wicked  and 
cruel,  but  as  a  tremendous  braggart.  He  raves  and  swag- 
gers and  swears  without  stint;  his  favorite  oath  being  by 
IMahound,  /.  c,  Mohammed;  for  in  all  respects  these 
miracle-plays  set  chronology  at  defiance.  The  speeches 
put  into  his  mouth,  more  than  any  others,  are  written  in 
the  old  Anglo-Saxon  alliterative  style,  of  which  Piers 
Ploughman's  Vision  is  a  well-known  example. f     Herod, 

*  John  Jiu-don.  Geffrey  Gile.  Malkin  Milkdoke.  Stephen  Sturdy, 
Tom  Tinker,  Peter  Potter   Lucy  Liar,  Miles  Miller,  etc. 

t  Perhaps   the   most   characteristic   speech   of  his   in   every   re- 
spect is  the  following  from  The  Slaughter  of  the  Innocents: — 
H erodes  Rex.  I  ryde  on  my  rowel  ryche  in  my  regne, 

Rybbys  ff ul  rede  with  rape  xal  I  sende ; 
Popetys  et  paphawkes  I  xal  putten  in  peyne. 

With  my  spere  prevyn.  pychen.  and  to-pende. 
The  gowys  with  gold  crownys  gete  thei  nevyr  ageyn, 

To  seke  tho  sottys  sondys  xal  I  sende ; 
Do  howlott  howtyn  hoberd  heyn. 
Whan  here  barnys  blede  undyr  credyl  bende; 
Sharply  I  xal  hem  shende ! 

14 


DRAMA 

in  spite  of  his  heathenism,  his  cruelty,  his  profanity,  and 
his  braggadocio — perhaps  by  reason  of  them — used  to  be 

The  knave   childeryn  that   be 
In  alle  Israel  countre, 
rhie   xul   have  blody   ble, 

ffor  on  I  calde  unkende. 
It  is  told  in  Grw, 
His  name  xulde  be  Jhesu 

I  fownde. 
To  have  hym  5e  gon. 
Hewe  the  flesche  with  the  bon. 

And  gyff  hym  wownde ! 
Now  kene  knyghtes  kythe  your  craflys. 

And  kyllyth  knave  childreyn  and  castyth  hem  in  clay; 
Shewyth  on  5oiir  shiilderes  scheldys  and  schaftys, 

Schapyht  amonge  schel  chowthys  ashyrlyng  shray  ; 
Doth  rowncys  rennen  with  rakynge  raftys, 

Tyl  rybbys  be  to  rent  with  a   reed  ray. 
Lete  no  barne  beleve  on  bete  baftys, 
Tyl  a  beggere  blede  be  bestys  baye, 

Mahoimd  that  best  may ; 
I  warne  3ow  my  knyghtes, 
A  barn  is  born  I  plyghtes, 
Wold  clymb}^  kynge  and  kyknytes, 

And  lett  my  lordly  lay. 
Knyghtes  wyse 
Chosyn  fill  chyse 
Aryse !  aryse ! 

And  take  3oiir  tolle ! 
And  every  page 
Of  ij.  Sere  age 
Or  eveyr  3e  swage, 

Sleythe  ilke  a  fool. 
On  of  hem  alle 
Was  born  in  stalle 
ffolys  hvm  calle 

Kynge  in  crown 
With  byttyr  galle. 
He  xalle  down  falle. — 
My  myght  in  halle 

Xal  nevyr  go  down. 

15 


THE  ENGLISH 

a  favourite  character  with  young  men  of  spirit  and  parts 
who  were  stage-struck.  Chaucer,  it  will  be  remembered, 
says,  in  the  Millers  Tale,  of  his  "  Absolon,  that  joly  was 
and  gay  "  : — 

"  Sometime    to    shew    his    lightness    and    maistrie 
He  plaieth  Herode  on  a  skaffolde  hie." 

But  more  than  by  the  indecency,  the  coarseness,  the  bom- 
bast, and  the  vapidity  of  these  miracle-plays,  we  are  as- 
tonished and  repulsed  by  the  degrading  familiarity  with 
which  they  treat  the  most  awful  and  most  moving  inci- 
dents of  the  Gospel  history.  The  Last  Supper  was  actu- 
ally played ;  the  Crucifixion  was  actually  played ;  and 
even  the  Resurrection  was  not  too  sacred  or  mysterious 
a  subject  to  be  represented.  Conforming  both  to  the  re- 
ligious spirit  and  the  taste  of  the  time,  the  clerical  dram- 
atist spared  his  audience  the  sight  of  no  indignity,  of  no 
torture,  suffered  by  Christ,  but  took  delight  in  represent- 
ing all  the  physical  circumstances  attending  his  death 
with  gross  and  bald  particularity.*  And  as  we  close  our 
examination  of  the  miracle-plays,  a  reflection  of  their 
mingled  childishness  and  temerity  must  be  uppermost  in 
the  mind  of  every  reader.     Had  it  not  been  done,  it  would 

*  The  following  passage,  it  will  be  seen,  shows  that  the  cruci- 
fixion was  represented  even  to  the  minutest  of  its  attendant  cir- 
cumstances : — 

Than  xul  thei  pulle  Jhesu  out  of  his  clotJiis,  and  leyn  them 
togedyr;  and  then  thei  xul  pullyn  hym  down  and  leyn  along  on 
the  cros,  and  after  that  naylyn  hym  thereon. 

Primus  Judcrus.       Come  on  now  here,  we  xal  asay 
Yf  the  cros  for  the  be  mete  ; 
Cast  hym  down  here  in  the  devyl  way, 
How  long  xal  he  standyn  on  his  fete? 
Seeundus  Judcrus.  Pul  hym  down,  evyl  mote  he  the 
And  gyf  me  his  arm  in  hast; 
And  anon  we  xal  se 

Here  good  days  thei  xul  be  past ! 

16 


DRAMA 

seem  almost  impossible  that  such  -subjects  could  be  so 
unworthily  treated  by  men  of  sense  and  education,  which 
the  better  class  of  Roman  Catholic  priests  were  even  in 
the  days  when  these  plays  were  written.  Here  were  the 
grandest  themes  handled  by  authors  to  whom  they  were 
matters  of  religious  faith  and  supreme  concern ;  and  all 
that  was  done  w^as  to  degrade,  to  belittle,  and  to  make 
ridiculous.  The  rudeness  of  the  people  for  w^hose  instruc- 
tion and  pleasure  the  miracle-plays  were  produced,  and 
the  gross  and  material  character  of  religion  in  that  day, 
account  in  a  great  measure  for  this  shocking  contrast  be- 
tween subject  and  treatment.  But  yet  it  would  seem  that, 
though  rude  and  simple,  these  compositions  might  have 
preserved  some  little  of  the  spirit  of  the  Hebrew  writers 
from  whom  their  subjects  were  taken,  and  who  themselves 
wrote  for  people  only  a  little  advanced  beyond  the  pale 
of  semi-barbarism.     And  one  subject,  by  remarkable  coin- 

Tertius  Judccus.       Gef  hese  other  arm  to  me, — 

Another  take  bed  to  hese  feet; 
And  anon  we  xal  se 

Yf  the  borys  be  for  hym  mete. 
Quartus  Judccus.     This  is  mete,  take  good  hede  ; 

Pulle  out  that  arm  to  the  sore. 
Primus  Judccus.       This  is  short,  the  devyl  hym  sped, 

Be  a  large  fote  and  more. 
Sccundus  Judccus.  ffest  on  a  rop  and  pulle  hym  long, 

And  I  xal  drawe  the  ageyn ; 
Spare  we  not  these  ropys  strong, 

Thow  we  brest  both  flesch  and  veyn ! 
Tertius  Judccus.       Dryve  in  the  nayle  anon,  lete  se. 

And  loke  and  the  flesch  and  sennes  welle  last. 
Quartus  Judccus.     That  I  graunt,  so  mote  I  the; 

Lo !  this  nayl  is  dreve  rytb  wel  and  fast. 
Primus  Judccus.       ffest  a  rope  than  to  his  feet, 

And  draw  hym  down  long  anow. 
Sccundus  Judccus.  Here  is  a  nayl  for  both  good  and  greet, 

I  xal  dryue  it  thorwe,  I  make  a  vow ! 
Plere  xule  thci  leve  of  and  dawncyn  abowte  the  cros  shortly. 

17 


THE  ENGLISH 

cidence,  was  treated  with  a  certain  degree  of  simplicity 
and  pathos  by  the  writers  of  all  of  the  three  great  col- 
lections of  English  miracle-plays.  This  was  the  story  of 
Abraham  and  Isaac.  And  it  is  worthy  of  special  remark 
that  it  was  a  subject  of  which  the  interest  is  purely  human, 
or  at  least  that  part  of  the  subject  in  question  which  ex- 
hibited paternal  love  on  the  one  side  and  filial  love  and 
devotion  on  the  other,  which  raised  all  these  writers  out  of 
their  slough  of  coarseness  and  buffoonery  into  the  region 
of  healthy  sentiment.  The  Coventry  series,  which  we 
have  been  examining,  offers  the  best  treatment  of  this  in- 
cident ;  which  in  itself,  and  in  the  barest  relation  of  it,  if 
one  can  repress  an  outbreak  of  rebellious  indignation  and 
disbelief,  the  most  pathetic  and  heart-breaking  told  in  all 
the  Hebrew  Scriptures.  With  an  extract  from  this  com- 
position, which  I  shall  put  in  modern  language,  I  shall 
close  this  notice  of  English  miracle-plays : — 

Isaac.     All  ready,  father,  even  at  your    will 

And  at  your  bidding  I  am  you  by, 
With  you  to  walk  over  dale  and  hill ; 

At  your  calling  I  am  ready. 
To  the  father  ever  most  comely 

It  behoveth  the  child  ever  obedient  to  be ; 
I  will  obey,  full  heartily, 

To  every  thing  that  ye  bid  me. 

Abraham.  Now,  son.  in  thy  neck  this  fagot  thou  take, 

And  this  fire  bear  in  thy  hand; 
For  we  must  now  sacrifice  go  make. 

Even  after  the  will  of  God's  command. 
Take  this  burning  brand 

My  sweet  child,  and  let  us  go ; 
There  may  no  man  that  liveth  upon  land 

Have  more  sorrow  than  I  have  woe. 

Isa.     Father,  father,  you  go  right  still ; 

I  pray  now.  father,  speak  unto  me. 
Abra.      My  good  child,  what  is  thy  will? 
Tell  me  thy  heart,  I  pray  to  thee. 

i8 


DRAMA 

Isa.    Father,  fire  and  wood  here  is  plenty; 
But  I  can  see  no  sacrifice; 
What  ye  will  offer  fain  would  I  see, 
That  it  were  done  at  best  advice. 

Abra.     God  shall  that  ordain  that  is  in  heaven, 
My  sweet  son,  for  this  offering; 
A  dearer  sacrifice  may  no  man  name 
Than  this  shall  be,  my  dear  darling. 
Isa.     Let  be,  dear  father,  your  sad  weeping; 
Your  heavy  looks  agrieve  me  sore. 
Tell  me,  father,  your  great  mourning, 
And  I  shall  seek  some  help  therefor, 

Abra.    x\las,  dear  son,  for  needs  must  me 

Even  here  thee  kill,  as  God  hath  sent; 
Thine  own  father  thy  death  must  be, — 

Alas,  that  ever  this  bow  was  bent ! 
With  this  fire  bright  thou  must  be  brent; 

An  angel  said  to  me  right  so ; 
Alas,  my  child,  thou  shalt  be  shent ! 

Thy  careful  father  must  be  thy  foe. 

Isaac  yields  to  what  Abraham  tells  him  is  the  divine  com- 
mand, which  yet  he  says  makes  his  heart  "  cling  and 
cleave  as  clay." 

Isa.       V  et  work  God's  will,  father,  I  you  pray, 
And  slay  me  here  anon  forthright ; 
And  turn  from  me  your  face  away 

My  head  when  that  you  shall  off  smite. 

Abra.     Alas!  dear  son,  I  may  not  choose, 

I  must  needs  here  my  sweet  son  kill ; 
My  dear  darling  now  must  me  lose, 

Mine  own  heart's  blood  now  shall  I  spill. 
Yet  this  deed  ere  I  fulfil. 

My  sweet  son,  thy  mouth  I  kiss. 
Isa.     All  ready,  father,  even  at  your  will 
I  do  your  bidding,  as  reason  is. 

19 


THE  ENGLISH 

Abra.       Alas !  dear  son,  here  is  no  grace, 

But  need  is  dead  now  must  thou  be. 

With  this  kerchief  I  hide  thy  face; 
In  the  time  that  I  slay  thee, 

Thy  lovely  visage  would  I  not  see, 
Not  for  all  this  world's  good. 

It  is  true  that  the  incident  here  represented  is  in  itself 
the  most  touching  that  can  be  conceived ;  but  the  author 
of  the  play  has  amplified  the  very  brief  account  in  Genesis, 
and  worked  it  out  in  a  dialogue,  which,  rude  although  it 
be,  is  full  of  nature  and  siniple  pathos.  The  conditions 
of  the  action  are  monstrous  and  incredible,  if  we  leave  out 
the  supernatural  element ;  and  the  situation,  unrelieved 
by  the  ever-present  consciousness  that  the  sacrifice  is  not 
to  be  made,  would  be  too  heartrending  for  contemplation. 
But  an  unquestioning  belief  in  the  supernatural,  even  to 
the  literal  acceptance  of  the  figurative  style  and  extrava- 
gant phraseology  of  the  Orient,  was  assumed  by  the  wri- 
ters of  miracle-plays.  The  son's  love,  submission,  and 
self-devotion,  and  the  father's  anguish,  are  expressed  w^ith 
tenderness  and  truth.  Abraham's  silent  woe,  as  they  walk 
together,  is  exhibited  with  really  dramatic  power  in  Isaac's 
exclamation,  "  Father,  father,  you  go  right  still  "  ;  and 
Abraham's  reply,  "  Tell  me  thy  heart,"  and  his  after  ex- 
clamation, "  Alas,  that  ever  this  bow  w^as  bent !  "  are  full 
of  pathos.  And  when  at  last  the  child  tells  the  father  to 
work  God's  wall,  yet  begs  him  to  turn  away  his  face  wdien 
he  strikes,  and  Abraham  kisses  his  son,  and  hides  from 
his  own  eyes  the  boy's  lovely  visage,  the  interest  is 
wrought  up  to  such  a  pitch  that  supernatural  intervention 
is  demanded  by  the  holiest  instincts  of  that  very  nature 
which  supernatural  intervention  has  so  pitilessly  outraged. 

II.  Rude,  gross,  and  childish  as  were  the  miracle- 
plays,  they  yet  contained  the  germ  of  our  drama;  and 
from  them  its  development,  for  a  long  time  slow,  but 
never  checked,  can  be  traced  up  to  the  sudden  splendid 
maturity  of  the  Elizabethan  era.  The  Coventry  series, 
which   we  have  just  been   examining,   differs   from  the 

20 


DRAMA 

Townley  and  the  Chester  series  by  the  introduction  of 
allegorical  personages  into  some  of  the  plays.  In  the 
earlier  miracle-plays  the  personages  all  belonged  to  the 
religious  history  which  the  plays  were  written  to  teacli ; 
and  the  author  confined  his  work  to  the  putting  of  the 
scriptural  story  or  saintly  legend  into  the  form  of  dialogue 
and  soliloquy.  But  as  time  wore  on,  virtues,  vices,  and 
even  modes  of  mental  action,  were  impersonated,  and 
mingled  upon  the  pageant  or  the  scaffold  with  patriarchs, 
apostles,  and  saints.  Thus  the  eighth  of  the  Coventry 
series,  The  Barrenness  of  Anna,  is  opened  with  a  kind  of 
prologue  or  introductory  chorus  by  Contemplation,  a  char- 
acter which  reappears  in  the  series  ;  and  in  The  Salutation 
and  Conception  the  Virtues,  collectively  embodied,  with 
Truth,  Pity,  and  Justice,  perform  functions  like  those  of 
the  Greek  chorus.  At  last,  in  The  Slaughter  of  the 
Innocents,  Death  (Mors)  takes  part  in  the  action; 
and  in  some  of  the  other  plays  impersonal  Detractors, 
Accusers,  and  Consolers  also  appear.  In  the  three  Digby 
Miracle-plays'^  there  is  one  formed  upon  the  life  of  Mary 
Magdalen,  which  is  interesting  in  this  respect.  And  in 
the  first  of  the  set  which  represents  the  Conversion  of  St. 
Paul,  it  is  noteworthy  that  of  two  devils  which  are  among 
the  characters,  one  is  named  Belial  and  the  other  Mercury ! 
The  first  is  instructed  to  enter  thus :  "  Here  to  enter  a 
Dyvel  with  thunder  and  fyre,  and  to  avaunce  hym  selfe 
saying  as  folowyth  ;  and  his  spech  spoken  to  syt  downe 
in  a  chayre."  AMiile  he  is  thus  making  himself  comfort- 
ably at  home  in  a  devilish  way,  and  complaining  of  the 
lack  of  news,  his  attendant  or  messenger  comes  in,  ac- 
cording to  this  direction :  "  Here  shall  entyre  a  nother 
devyll,  calld  Mercury,  with  a  fyering,  coming  in  hast, 
cryeing  and  roryng."  After  a  consultation  as  to  the  bad 
way  their  friend  Saul  appears  to  be  in,  to  wit,  peril  of 
salvation,  body  and  soul,  they  both  "  vanyshe  away  with  a 

*  So  called  because  they  are  preserved  among  the  Digby  MSS. 
in  the  Bodleian  Library. 


THE  ENGLISH 

fyrye  flame  and  a  tempest."  The  play  on  The  Life  of 
Mary  Magdalen,  rather  a  late  miracle-play,  was  intended 
to  be  a  spectacle  of  unusual  attraction.  It  required  four 
pageants  or  scaffolds.  Tiberius,  Herod,  Pilate,  and  the 
Devil — personages  of  apparently  equal  dramatic  dignity 
— had  each  his  own  station  before  the  audience ;  and  the 
entrance  of  the  latter  is  thus  directed :  "  Here  shal  entyr 
the  prynce  of  devylls  in  a  stage,  and  hell  onder  neth  that 
stage.''  Indeed,  the  representation  of  hell,  or  of  hell- 
mouth,  into  which  demons  and  their  victims  were  sent, 
was  a  standing,  and,  it  would  seem,  a  much  prized  effect 
in  the  performance  of  the  miracle-plays.  In  the  account 
books  of  the  expenses  of  the  Coventry  plays,  there  are 
many  charges  for  "  the  repayring  of  Helmought."  To 
return  to  the  play  of  Mary  Magdalen  :  A  ship  appears 
between  the  scaffolds ;  the  mariners  spy  the  castle  of 
Mary,  which  the  Devil  and  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins  besiege 
and  capture.  Lechery  addresses  the  heroine  in  a  speech, 
the  following  extract  from  which  will  give  a  notion  of  the 
style  of  the  composition  : — 

"  Heyl,  lady,  most  lawdabyll  of  alyauns ! 
Heyl,  orient  as  the  sonne  in  his  reflexite ! 
Much  pepul  be  comfortyd  be  your  benignaunt  affyauns ; 
Brighter  than  the  bornyd  is  your  bemys  of  bewte, 
Most  debonarious  with  your  aungelly  velycyte." 

The  appearance  of  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins  and  of  the 
Kings  of  the  World,  the  Flesh,  and  the  Devil  in  this  play 
as  ten  distinct  characters,  is  not  only  very  curious,  but  is  a 
noteworthy  step  toward  the  next  stage  of  our  drama, 
which  now  took  the  allegorical  form  of  the  moral-play. 
Of  character  and  action,  in  a  true  dramatic  sense,  the 
miracle-plays,  with  one  or  two  exceptions  to  be  noticed 
hereafter,  had  really  none.  The  personages  came  upon 
the  stage  and  described  themselves,  giving  a  dry  catalogue 
of  their  qualities,  conditions,  and  relations,  and  then  went 
formally  through  the  speech  and  action  prescribed  for 
them  in  Scripture  or  legend.     But  when  allegorical  per- 

22 


DRAMA 

sonages  began  to  multiply,  as  they  did  in  the  miracle-plays, 
they  began  also  to  interfere  with  and  modify  this  slavish 
adherence  to  Scripture  story  and  church  tradition;  until 
finally  these  personages,  who,  it  will  be  seen  upon  a  mo- 
ment's reflection,  represent  an  extraneous  human  element, 
and  are,  in  fact,  clumsy  embodiments  alternately  of  the 
mental  conditions  of  the  other  characters  and  of  the  audi- 
ence, obtained  possession  of  the  stage,  and  completely  ex- 
pelled the  angels,  saints,  and  patriarchs,  in  aid  of  whose 
waning  power  to  interest  the  people  they  had  been  created. 
In  a  moral-play,  pure  and  simple,  the  personages  are 
all  embodiments  of  abstract  ideas,  and  the  motive  of 
the  play  is  the  enforcement  of  moral  truth  as  a  guide  to 
human  conduct.  The  abstract  ideas  may  be  virtues,  as 
Justice,  INIercy,  Compassion  ;  or  vices,  as  Avarice,  Malice, 
Falsehood  ;  or  a  state,  condition,  or  mode  of  life,  as  Youth, 
Old  Age,  Poverty,  Abominable  Living ;  or  an  embodiment 
of  the  human  race,  as  in  the  character  Every  Man  in  the 
moral-play  of  that  name ;  or  of  a  part  of  it,  in  the  play  of 
Lusty  Juventus ;  or  of  the  end  of  all  men,  for  in  these 
compositions  Death  itself  is  not  unfrequently  embodied. 
But  there  were  two  prominent,  and.  so  to  speak,  stock 
characters,  which  were  as  essential  to  a  moral-play  as 
Harlequin  and  Columbine  to  an  old  pantomime.  These 
were  the  Devil  and  the  Vice ;  the  former  being  an  inheri- 
tance from  the  miracle-plays,  but  the  latter  a  new  creation. 
Exactly  why  and  how  this  personage  came  into  being  with 
the  moral-play,  we  do  not  know ;  but  may  it  not  have 
been  with  the  purpose  of  having  ever  present  an  embodied 
antithesis  to  the  motive  of  the  play — morality  ?  That  the 
name  was  derived  from  the  nature  of  the  character  would 
seem  manifest  without  a  word,  were  it  not  that  other 
and  fantastic  derivations  have  been  suggested.  The  Devil 
was  represented  as  the  hideous  monster  evolved  by  the 
morbid  religious  imagination  of  the  dark  ages,  having 
horns,  at  least  one  hoof,  a  tail,  a  shaggy  body,  and  a  visage 
both  frightful  and  ridiculous.  The  Vice  wore  generally, 
if  not  always,  the  costume  of  the  domestic  fool,  or  jester, 

23 


THE  ENGLISH 

of  the  period,  which  is  now  worn  by  clowns  of  the  circus. 
He  was  at  first  called  the  Vice ;  but  as  the  Vice  became 
a  distinct  line  of  character,  as  much  as  walking  gentle- 
man on  our  stage,  or  pcre  noble  on  the  French,  his  name 
and  his  functions  were  afterward  those  of  Infidelity,  Hy- 
pocrisy, Desire,  and  so  forth.  Sometimes  the  part  of  a 
gallant  or  bully  was  written  for  the  Vice,  and  was  named 
accordingly;  and  sometimes  he  was  called  Iniquity. 
When  he  bore  this  name  he  would  seem  to  have  been  not 
a  mere  buffoon  or  clown,  making  merriment  with  gibes 
and  antics,  but  a  sententious  person,  with  all  his  fun  ;  for 
Shakespeare  {Richard  III.,  III.  i.)  makes  the  following 
descriptive  mention  of  this  kind  of  Vice : — 

"  Thus,  like  the  formal  vice,  Iniquity, 
I  moralize  two  meanings  in  one  word." 

But  the  Vice  generally  performed  the  mingled  functions 
of  scamp,  braggart,  and  practical  joker.  There  was  a 
conventional  make-up  for  his  face.  Barnaby  Rich,  in 
Adventures  of  Brusanus,  published  1592,  says  that  a  cer- 
tain personage  had  "  his  beard  cut  peecke  a  devant,  turnde 
uppe  a  little,  like  the  Vice  of  a  playe."  He  was  armed 
with  a  dagger  or  sword  of  lath,  with  which  he  beat  the, 
Devil ;  that  personage  having  his  revenge  almost  invari- 
ably, at  the  end  of  the  play,  by  taking  his  tormenter  upon 
his  back  and  running  off  with  him  into  "  hellmought." 

Moral-plays  were  first  performed  upon  the  pageants  or 
scaffolds  from  which  they  were  driving  the  miracle-plays. 
But  at  last  it  was  thought  that  people  might  better  go  to 
the  play  than  have  the  play  go  to  them  ;  and  it  was  found 
that  barns  and  great  halls  were  more  convenient  for  actors 
and  audience  than  movable  scaffolds.  Yet  later,  people 
discovered  that  best  of  all  available  places  were  inn  yards, 
where  windows,  and  galleries,  and  verandas  commanded 
a  view  of  a  court  round  which  the  house  was  built. 
Sometimes  moral-plays  were  written  to  be  played  in  the 
interval  between  a  feast  or  dinner  and  a  banquet ;  the 
banquet  having  corresponded  to  what  V\-e  call  the  dessert, 

24 


DRAMA 

and  having  been  usually  served  in  another  room.  Hence 
the  name  of  interlude,  which  was  frequently  given  to  these 
plays.  Yet  the  name  interlude  came  to  be  almost  con- 
fined to  a  kind  of  play  shorter  than  a  moral-play,  and 
without  allegorical  characters  or  significance,  and  so  better 
suited  to  the  occasion  for  which  it  was  intended.  John 
Heywood  w^as  the  master  of  this  kind  of  play-writing,  if 
indeed  he  were  not  its  inventor ;  but  his  proper  place  is  at 
a  later  period  of  our  little  history. 

The  oldest  English  moral-play  yet  discovered  exists  in 
manuscript,  and  is  entitled  The  Castle  of  Perseverance. 
It  was  written  about  1450.  The  principal  character  is 
Humanum  Genus,  an  embodiment  of  mankind,  whose 
moral  enemies,  the  World,  the  Flesh,  and  the  Devil, 
(Mundus,  Caro,  and  Belial,)  open  the  play  by  a  confer- 
ence in  which  they  boast  of  their  powers.  Mankind  ( Hu- 
manum Genus)  then  appears,  and  announces  that  he  has 
just  come  into  the  world  naked ;  and  immediately  a  good 
and  a  bad  angel  present  themselves,  and  assert  their  claims 
to  his  confidence.  He  gives  himself  up  to  the  latter,  who, 
through  the  agency  of  the  World,  places  him  in  the  hands 
of  Voluptuousness  and  Folly  ( Voluptas  and  Stultitia — but 
let  it  suffice  to  say  that  the  characters  have  Latin  names). 
Backbiter  then  makes  him  acquainted  with  Avarice  and 
the  other  deadly  sins,  of  whom  Luxury — in  these  plays 
always  a  woman — becomes  his  leman.  The  good  angel 
sends  Confession  to  him,  who  is  told  that  he  is  come  too 
soon,  he  having  then  more  agreeable  matters  in  hand  than 
the  confessing  of  sin.  But  at  last,  by  the  help  of  Peni- 
tence, Mankind  is  reclaimed,  and  got  ofif  into  the  strong 
Castle  of  Perseverance  in  company  with  the  seven  Cardi- 
nal Virtues.  Belial  and  the  Deadly  Sins  lay  siege  to  the 
castle,  the  leader  having  first  berated  and  beaten  his  forces 
for  having  allowed  his  prey  to  escape  him.'''     Belial  and 

*  Belial  thus  incites  his  followers  to  the  assault : — 
"  I  here  trumpys  trebelen  all  of  tene : 
The  wery  world  walkyth  to  werre    .    . 
Sprede  my  penon  upon  a  prene 

25 


THE  ENGLISH 

• 

the  Sins  are  defeated,  chiefly  by  the  aid  of  Charity  and 
Patience,  who  pelt  them  with  roses  from  the  battlements. 
But  Mankind  begins  to  grow  old.  and  Avarice  undermines 
the  castle,  and  persuades  him  to  leave  it.  Garcio  (a  boy) 
claims  all  the  goods  which  Mankind  has  gathered  with  the 
aid  of  Avarice,  when  Death  and  the  Soul  appear,  and  the 
latter  calls  on  Pity  for  help.  But  the  bad  angel  takes  the 
hero  on  his  back,  and  sets  off  with  him  hellward.  The 
scene  changes  to  heaven,  where  Pity,  Peace,  Justice,  and 
Truth  plead  for  him  with  God,  and  we  are  left  to  infer 
that  Mankind  is  saved.  God  speaks  the  moralizing  epi- 
logue. A  rude  drawing  on  the  last  leaf  of  the  manu- 
script shows  the  castle  with  a  bed  beneath  it  for  Man- 
kind, and  five  scaffolds  for  God,  Belial,  the  World,  the 
Flesh,  and  Avarice.  In  another  play  in  the  same  collec- 
tion, called  Mind  Will  and  Understanding,  Anima,  the 
Soul,  also  appears,  and,  having  been  debauched  by  the 
three  personages  who  give  the  play  its  name,  she  "  ap- 
perythe  in  most  horribul  wyse,  fowler  than  a  fend,"  and 
gives  birth  to  six  of  the  deadly  sins  according  to  this 
direction :  "  Here  rennyt  out  from  undyr  the  horrybull 
mantyle  of  the  Soul  six  small  boys  in  the  lyknes  of  dev- 
yllys,  and  so  retorne  ageyn."  Conscious  of  her  degra- 
dation, she  goes  out  with  her  three  seducers,  and  it  is 
directed  that  "  in  the  going  the  Soule  syngyth  in  the  most 
lamentabuU  wyse,  with  drawte  notes,  as  yt  ys  songyn  in 
the  passyon  wyke."  In  the  end,  Mind,  Will,  and  Under- 
standing are  converted  from  their  evil  ways,  to  the  great 
joy  of  Anima. 

John  Skelton,  poet-laureate  to  Henry  VTI.  and  his  son, 
wrote  two  moral-plays,  TJie  Necromancer,  and  Mag- 
nificence.     A  copy  of  the  latter  still  exists ;    and  one  of 

And  stryke  we  fro  the  now  undyr  sterre. 
Schapyth  now  your  sheldys  shene 
Yone  skallyd  skrouts  for  to  skerre 
Buske  ye  nOw,  boys,  belyve, 
For  ever  I  stond  in  mekyl  stryve 
Whyl  Mankind  is  in  clene  lyve." 

26 


DRAMA 

the  former  was  seen  and  described  by  Collins,  although 
it  has  since  been  lost.  The  characters  are  a  Necromancer, 
the  Devil,  a  Notary,  Simony,  and  Avarice  ;  and  the  action 
is  merely  the  trial  of  the  last  two  before  the  Devil.  The 
Necromancer  calls  upon  the  Devil,  and  opens  the  court. 
The  prisoners  are  found  guilty,  and  are  sent  straightway 
to  hell.  The  Devil  abuses  the  conjurer,  and  disappears  in 
flame  and  smoke.  This  play,  which  was  played  before 
King  Henry  VIL,  at  Woodstock,  on  Palm  Sunday,  was 
printed  in  1504.  WTien  Magnificence  was  produced  we 
do  not  know,  as  its  title-page  is  without  date ;  but  Skelton 
mentions  it  in  a  poem  printed  in  1523.  Its  purpose  is  to 
show  the  vanity  of  magnificence.  The  hero.  Magnificence 
— eaten  out  of  house  and  home  by  a  raft  of  friends  called 
Fancy,  alias  Largess,  Counterfeit-countenance,  Crafty- 
conveyance,  Cloked-collusion,  Courtly-abusion,  and  Folly 
— falls  into  the  hands  of  Adversity  and  Poverty,  and 
finally  is  taken  possession  of  by  Despair  and  Mischief, 
who  persuade  him  to  commit  suicide,  which  he  is  about 
to  do,  when  Good-hope  stays  his  hand,  and  Redress,  Cir- 
cumspection, and  Perseverance  sober  him  down  to  a 
humble  frame  of  mind.  The  piece  is  intolerably  long, 
and  much  of  it  is  written  in  that  wearisome  verse  called 
"  Skeltonic."  *     To   relieve   it,    some   fun   is   introduced, 

"'^  Of  which  the  following  passage  is  an  example: — 
"  For  counterfet  countenaunce  knowen  am  I. 
This  worlde  is  full  of  my  foly. 
I  set  not  by  hym  a  fly 
That  cannot  counterfet  a  lye. 
Swere  and  stare  and  byde  therebye, 
And  countenaunce  it  clenly, 
And  defende  it   manerly. 
A  knave  will  counterfet  now  a  knyght, 
A  lurdayne  lyke  a  lorde  to  fyght. 
A  mynstrell  lyke  a  man  of  myght. 
A  tappyster  lyke  a  lady  bryght. 
Thus  make  I  them  wyth  thryff  to  fyght ; 
Thus  at  the  last  1  brynge  hym  ryght 
To  Tyburne,  where  they  hange  on  hyght." 

27 


THE  ENGLISH 

which  is  of  the  coarsest  kind,  but  which  was  probably 
more  to  the  taste  of  all  the  poet's  audience,  high  and 
low,  than  his  heavy  moralizing.*  Of  pure  moral-plays 
the  reader  has  probably  had  quite  enough  ;  but  two  others 
may  well  be  noticed,  on  account  of  traits  peculiar  to  them. 
In  one,  called  The  longer  thou  livest  the  more  Foole  thou 
art,  the  chief  character  is  Moro's,  a  mischievous  fool,  who 
enters  upon  this  direction :  "  Here  entreth  Moros^  coun- 
terfaiting  a  vaine  gesture  and  a  foolish  countenaunce, 
synging  the  foote  of  many  songes  as  fools  were  wont." 
This  brings  to  mind  Shakespeare's  fools  and  clowns,  who 
are  always  singing  the  foot  of  many  songs  ;  and  we  see 
the  making  them  do  so  was  no  device  of  his,  but  a  mere 
faithful  copying  of  the  living  models  before  him ;  though 
the  lyric  sweetness  and  the  art  and  the  wisdom  wdiich  he 
puts  into  their  mouths  were  in  most  instances,  we  may 
be  sure,  his  own.  The  other  moral-play  in  question,  The 
Marriage  of  Wit  and  Science,  is  remarkable  not  only  for 
its  very  elaborate  and  ingenious,  though  equally  dull  and 
wearisome,  allegory,  but  for  the  fact  that  it  is  regularly 
divided  into  acts  and  scenes,  which  is  not  the  case  with 
even  many  of  the  early  comedies  and  tragedies  by  which 
the  miracle-plays  were  succeeded.  One  of  the  very  latest 
of  the  moral-plays  was  The  Three  Lords  and  Three  Ladies 
of  London,  which  was  written  after  1588,  and  printed  in 

*As  for  instance,  the  following  passage  in  which  Folly  wins  a 
wager  that  he  will  laugh  Crafty-conveyance  out  of  his  coat: — 
{Here  foly  maketh  semblaunt  to  take  a  lozvse  from  crafty 
conveyance  shoulder] 
Fancy.  What  hast  thou  found  there? 
Foly.  By  god,  a  lowse. 

Crafty-convey.  By  cockes  harte  I  trow  thou  lyste. 
Foly.  By  the  masse,  a  spanyshe  moght  with  a  gray  lyste. 
Fancy.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha ! 
Crafty-convey.  Cockes  armes,  it  is  not  so,  I  trowe. 

[Here  crafty-convcvQUce  puttcih  of  his  gozune.] 
Foly.  Put  on  thy  gowne  agayne  for  now  thou  hast  lost. 
Fancy.  Lo,  John  a  bonam,  where  is  thy  brayne? 

28 


DRAMA 

1590.  But,  as  its  title  would  indicate,  this  is  in  reality  a 
kind  of  comedy ;  and  it  is  also  remarkable  as  being  writ- 
ten for  the  most  part  in  blank  verse. 

III.  As  allegory  had  crept  into  the  miracle-plays,  and, 
by  introducing  the  impersonation  of  abstract  qualities,  had 
worked  a  change  in  their  structure  and  their  purpose, 
which  finally  produced  the  moral-play,  so  personages  in- 
tended as  satire  upon  classes  and  individuals,  and  as  rep- 
resentations of  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  day,  took, 
year  after  year,  more  and  more  the  place  of  the  cold  and 
stiff  abstractions  which  filled  the  stage  in  the  pure  moral- 
play,  until,  at  last,  comedy,  or  the  ideal  representation  of 
k.uman  life,  appeared  in  English  drama.  Thus  in  Tom 
Tyler  and  his  Wife,  which,  according  to  Ritson,  was  pub- 
lished in  1578,  and  which  contains  internal  evidence  that 
it  was  written  about  eight  years  before  that  date,  the  per- 
sonages are  Tom  Tyler,  his  good  woman,  who  is  a  gray 
mare  of  the  most  formidable  kind,  Tom  Tailor,  his  friend, 
Desire,  Strife,  Sturdy,  Tipple,  Patience,  and  the  Vice. 
In  The  Conflict  of  Conscience,  written  at  about  the  same 
date,  among  Conscience,  Hypocrisy,  Tyranny,  Avarice, 
Sensual-suggestion,  and  the  like,  a'ppear  four  historical 
personages — Francis  Spiera,  an  Italian  lawyer,  who  is 
called  Philologus,  his  two  sons,  and  Cardinal  Eusebius. 
Collier  also  mentions  a  political  moral-play  written  about 
1565,  called  Albion  Knight,  in  which  the  hero,  a  knight 
named  Albion,  is  a  personification  of  England,  and  the 
motive  of  which  is  satire  upon  the  oppression  of  the  com- 
mons by  the  nobles.  But  before  this  date,  and  probably 
in  the  reign  of  Edward  VI.,  Bishop  Bale  had  written  his 
Kyngc  Johan,  a  play  the  purpose  of  which  was  to  further 
the  Reformation,  and  which  partook  of  the  characters  of  a 
moral-play,  and  a  dramatic  chronicle-history.  Indeed, 
neither  the  reformers  nor  their  opponents  were  slow  to 
take  advantage  of  the  stage  as  a  means  of  indoctrinating 
the  people  with  their  peculiar  views  ;  and  as  the  govern- 
ment passed  alternately  into  the  hands  of  Papists  and 
Protestants,  plays  were  suppressed,  or  dramatic  perform- 

29 


THE  ENGLISH 

ances  interdicted  altogether,  as  the  good  of  the  ecclesias- 
tical party  in  power  seemed  to  require.  In  the  very  first 
year  of  Queen  Mary's  reign,  1558,  a  politico-reHgious 
moral-play,  called  Respiiblica,  was  produced,  the  purpose 
of  which  was  to  check  the  Reformation.  The  kingdom  of 
England  is  impersonated  as  Respublica,  and,  by  the  au- 
thor's own  admission,  Queen  jMary  herself  figures  as 
Nemesis,  the  goddess  of  redress  and  correction. 

John  Heywood,  whose  interludes  have  been  already 
mentioned,  produced  his  first  play  before  the  year  1521. 
Yet,  in  turning  our  eyes  back  two  generations  to  glance 
at  his  compositions,  we  may  obtain,  perhaps,  a  more  cor- 
rect view  of  the  gradual  development  of  the  English 
drama  than  if  we  had  examined  them  in  the  order  of  time. 
Heywood  was  attached  to  the  court  of  Henry  VHI.  as  a 
singer  and  player  upon  the  virginals.  His  interludes  were 
short  pieces,  about  the  length  of  one  act  of  a  modem 
comedy.  Humorous  in  their  motive,  and  dependent  for 
all  their  interest  upon  their  extravagant  burlesque  of 
every-day  life,  upon  the  broadest  jokes  and  the  coarsest 
satire,  they  were,  indeed,  but  a  kind  of  farce.  That  which 
is  regarded  as  Heywood's  earliest  extant  production  is 
entitled  A  mery  play  hetzveen  the  Pardoner  and  the  Frere, 
the  Curate  and  neybour  Prafte.  The  Pardoner  and  the 
Friar  have  got  leave  of  the  Curate  to  use  his  church,  the 
former  to  show  his  relics,  the  latter  to  preach ;  both  having 
the  same  end  in  view — money.  They  quarrel  as  to  who 
shall  have  precedence,  and  at  last  fight.  The  Curate, 
brought  in  by  this  row  between  his  clerical  brethren,  at- 
tempts to  separate  and  pacify  them ;  but  failing  to  accom- 
plish this  single-handed,  he  calls  the  neighbours  to  his  aid. 
In  vain,  however;  for  the  Pardoner  and  the  Friar,  like 
man  and  wife  interrupted  in  a  quarrel,  unite  their  forces, 
and  beat  the  interlopers  soimdly.  After  which  they  de- 
part, and  the  play  ends.  In  The  Four  P's,  andother  of  Hey- 
wood's interludes,  the  personages  are  the  Palmer,  the  Par- 
doner, the  Poticary,  and  the  Pedlar.  In  this  play  there  is 
little  action;   and  the  four  worthies,  after  gibing  at  each 

30 


DRAMA 

other's  professions  for  a  while,  set  out  to  see  which  can 
tell  the  biggest  lie.  After  much  elaborate  and  ingenious 
falsehood  the  Palmer  beats  by  tl.L-  simple  assertion  that 
he  never  saw  a  woman  out  of  patience  in  his  life  ;  at  which 
his  opponents  "  come  down  "  without  another  word.  The 
satire  in  these  plays  is  found  in  the  inconsistency  between 
the  characters  of  the  personages  and  their  professions,  and 
particularly  in  the  absurd  and  ridiculous  pretensions  of 
the  clergymen  as  to  their  priestly  functions,  and  the  nature 
of  their  relics.  In  The  Pardoner  and  the  Friar,  the  Par- 
doner produces  "  the  great  too  of  the  holy  trynyte,"  and 

"  of  our  Ladye  a  relyke  full  good, 
Her  bongrace,  which  she  ware  with  her  French  hode, 
Whan  she  wente  oute  al  wayes  for  sonne  bornynge  " ; 

also,  ''  of  all  halowes  the  blessed  jaw  bone  "  ;  and  in  The 
Four  P's  there  is  a  "  buttocke-bone  of  Pentecoste."  And 
yet  Heywood  was  a  stanch  Romanist. 

There  are  certain  passages  in  Heywood's  plays,  which, 
considering  the  period  at  which  he  wrote,  are  remarkable 
for  genuine  humour  and  descriptive  power,  as  well  as  for 
spirited  and  lively  versification.*  And  coarse  and  indecent 

*  See  the  following  description  of  an  alleged  visit  to  hell  by  the 
Pardoner  in  The  Four  P's : — 

"  Thys  devyll  and  I  walket  arme  in  arme 
So  farre,  tyll  he  had  brought  me  thyther, 
Where  all  the  dyvells  of  hell  togyther 
Stode  in  a  ray,  in  suche  apparell 
As  for  that  day  there  metely  fell. 
Theyr  homes  well  gylt,  theyr  clowes  full  clene, 
Theyr  taylles  wel  kempt,  and  as  I  wene, 
With  sothery  butter  theyr  bodyes  anoynted ; 
I  never  sawe  devylls  so  well  appoynted. 
The  master  devyll  sat  on  his  jacket, 
And  all  the  soules  were  playinge  at  racket. 
None  other  rackettes  they  hadde  in  hande 
Save  every  soul  a  good  fyre  brand ; 
Wherewith  they  played  so  pretely, 
That   Lucyfer   laughed  merely: 

31 


THE  ENGLISH 

as  his  productions  must  be  pronounced,  they  exhibit  more 
real  dramatic  power  than  appears  in  those  of  any  other 
playwright  of  the  first  half  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

Hey  wood  founded  no  school,  seems  to  have  had  no 
imitators ;  there  is  no  line  of  succession  between  him 
and  the  man  who  must  be  regarded  as  the  first  writer  of 
genuine  English  comedy.  We  have  seen  that  plays  in 
which  characters  drawn  from  real  life,  mingled  with  the 
allegorical  personages  proper  to  moral-plays,  were  writ- 
ten as  late  as  1570.  Such  were  Tom  Tyler  and  his  Wife 
and  The  Conflict  of  Conscience,  mentioned  above.  But 
as  early  as  the  year  1551,  Nicholas  Udall,  who  became 
Master  of  Eton,  an^l  afterward  of  Westminster,  had  writ- 
ten a  play  divided  into  acts  and  scenes,  with  a  gradually 

And  all  the  resedew  of  the  feends 

Did  laugh  thereat  ful  wel  like  freends. 

But  of  my  friende  I  sawe  no  whyt, 

Nor  durst  not  axe  for  her  as  yet. 

Anone  all  this  rout  was  brought  in  selens. 

And  I  by  an  usher  brought  in  presens, 

Of  Lucyfer :  then  lowe,  as  wel  I  could, 

I  knelyd  whiche  he  so  well  alowde, 

That  thus  he  beckte,  and  by  saynt  Antony 

He  smyled  on  me  well  favouredly, 

Bendynge  his  browss  as  brode  as  barne  durres, 

Shakynge  his  eares  as  ruged  as  burres ; 

Rolyng  his  eyes  as  rounde  as  two  bushels; 

Flashynge  the  fyre  out  of  his  nose  thryls ; 

Gnashinge  his  teeth  so  vaynglorously, 

That  me  thought  tyme  to  fall  to  flatery, 

Wherwith  I  tolde  as  I  shall  tell. 

0  plesant  pycture !     O  prince  of  hell ! 
Feutred  in  fashyon  abominable 

And  syns  that  is  inestimable 
For  me  to  prayse  the  worthyly, 

1  leve  of  prayse  as  unworthy 
To  geve  the  prays  besechynge  the 
To  heare  my  sewte,  and  then  to  be 

So  good  to  graunt  the  thynge  I  crave." 

32 


DRAMA 

developed  action  tending-  to  a  climax,  and  the  characters 
of  which  were  all  ideal  representations  of  actual  life ;  a 
play  which  was,  in  short,  a  comedy.  The  play  is  named 
after  its  hero,  Ralph  Roister  Doisfcr.  The  scene  is  laid 
in  London,  and  Ralph,  who  is  a  conceited,  rattle-pated 
young  fellow  about  town,  and  amorous  withal,  fancies 
himself  in  love  with  Dame  Custance,  a  gay  young-  widow 
with  "  a  tocher,"  as  he  thinks,  of  a  thousand  pounds  and 
more.  But  upon  this  point  Matthew  Merry-greek,"^  his 
poor  kinsman  and  attendant,  a  shrewd,  mischievous,  time- 
serving fellow,  remarks  to  him,  that 

"  An  hundred  pounde  of  marriage  money  doubtless, 
Is  ever  thirtie  pounde  sterlyng  or  somewhat  less ; 
So  that  her  thousande  pounde  yf  she  be  thriftie 
Is  much  neere  about  two  hundred  and  fiftie. 
Howbeit  wowers  and  widows  are  never  poore." 

Which  shows  that  our  ways,  in  this  respect  at  least,  have 
not  changed  much  in  three  hundred  years  from  those  of 
our  forefathers.  When  the  play  opens,  Custance  is  be- 
trothed to  Garvin  Goodluck,  a  merchant  who  is  then  at 
sea.  But  ]\lerry-greek  crams  his  master  with  eagerly 
swallowed  flattery,  and  puts  him  in  heart  by  telling  him 
that  a  man  of  his  person  and  spirit  can  win  any  woman. 
Ralph  encounters  three  of  Custance's  hand-maids,  old  and 
young,  and  by  flattering  words  and  caresses  tries  to  bring 
them  over  to  his  side.  He  leaves  a  letter  with  one  of  them 
for  Cystance,  which  is  delivered,  but  not  immediately 
opened.  The  next  day  Dobinet  Doughty,  the  merchant's 
servant,  brings  a  ring  and  token  from  Master  Goodluck 
to  Dame  Custance ;  but  ]\Iadge,  having  got  a  scolding  for 
her  pains  in  delivering  Ralph's  letter,  refuses  to  carry  the 
ling  and  token.  Other  servants  entering,  Dobinet  intro- 
duces himself  as  a  messenger  from  the  dame's  betrothed 
husband ;    and  they,   especially  one   Tibbet  Talk-a-pace. 

*  Merry-greek  was  slang  three  hundred  years  ago  for  what  we 
now  call  a  "jolly  fellow."  So  in  Troilus  and  Crcssida,  I.  ii. : 
"  Then  she  's  a  merry  Greek  indeed." 

2Z 


THE  ENGLISH 

being  delighted  at  the  idea  of  a  wedding,  and  mistaking 
the  man  who  is  thus  to  bless  the  household,  fall  out  as  to 
who  is  to  deliver  Ralph's  presents.  But  Tib  triumphs  by 
snatching  the  souvenirs  and  running  out  with  them  to  her 
mistress.  A  reproof  to  Tib  in  her  turn  ends  the  second 
Act.  The  third  opens  with  a  visit  by  Merry-greek  to 
Dame  Custance,  that  he  may  find  out  if  the  ring  and  token 
lave  worked  well  for  his  master's  interest.  But  he  only 
learns  from  Dame  Custance  that  she  is  fast  betrothed  to 
Goodluck,  that  she  has  not  even  opened  Ralph's  letter, 
but  knows  that  it  must  be  from  him — 

"  For  no  mon  there  is  but  a  very  dolte  and  lout 
That  to  wowe  a  widowe  would  so  go  about." 

She  adds  that  Ralph  shall  never  have  her  for  his  wife 
while  he  lives.  On  receiving  this  news,  Ralph  declares 
that  he  shall  then  and  there  incontinently  die ;  when 
Merry-greek  takes  him  at  his  word,  pretends  to  think  that 
he  is  really  dying,  and  calls  in  a  priest  and  four  assistants 
to  sing  a  mock  requiem.  Ralph,  however,  like  most  dis- 
appointed lovers,  concludes  to  live ;  and  Merry-greek  ad- 
vises him  to  serenade  Custance,  and  boldly  ask  her  hand. 
So  done ;  but  Custance  snubs  him,  and  produces  his  yet 
unread  letter,  which  INIerry-greek  reads  to  the  assembled 
company  with  such  defiance  of  the  punctuation  that  the 
sense  is  perverted,  and  all  are  moved  to  mirth  except 
Ralph,  who  in  wrath  disowns  the  composition.  Dame 
Custance  retires,  and  Merry-greek,  again  flattering  his 
master,  advises  him  to  refrain  himself  awhile  from  his 
lady-love,  and  that  then  she  will  seek  him,  for,  as  to 
women, — 

"  When  ye  will  they  will  not ;  will  not  ye,  then  will  they." 

Ralph  threatens  vengeance  upon  the  scrivener  who  copied 
his  letter ;  but  when  the  penman  reads  it  with  the  proper 
pauses,  he  finds  out  who  is  the  real  culprit ;  and  thus  the 
third  Act  ends.  The  fourth  opens  with  the  entrance  of 
another  messenger   from   Goodluck  to  Dame   Custance. 

34 


DRAMA 

While  he  is  talking  to  the  lady  Ralph  enters,  ostentatiously 
giving  orders  about  making  ready  his  armor,  takes  great 
airs,  calls  Custance  his  spouse,  and  tells  Goodluck's  mes- 
senger to  tell  his  master  that ''  his  betters  be  in  place  now." 
The  angered  Dame  Custance  summons  maid  and  man,  and 
turns  Ralph  and  Merry-greek  out  of  doors ;  but  the  latter 
soon  slips  back,  and  tells  her  that  his  only  purpose  is  to 
make  sport  of  Ralph,  who  is  about  returning  armed,  "  to 
pitch  a  field  "  with  his  female  foes.  Roister  Bolster  soon 
enters  armed  with  pot,  pan,  and  popgun,  and  accompanied 
by  three  or  four  assistants.  But  the  comely  dame,  who 
seems  to  be  a  tall  woman  of  her  hands,  stands  her  ground, 
and,  aided  by  her  maids,  "  pitches  into  "  the  enemy,  and 
with  mop  and  besom  puts  him  to  ignominious  flight ;  in 
which  squabble  the  knave  Merry-greek,  pretending  to 
fight  for  his  rich  kinsman,  manages  to  belabor  him 
soundly.  At  the  beginning  of  the  fifth  Act  Garvin  Good- 
luck  makes  his  appearance,  and  Sim  Suresby  tells  him  of 
what  he  saw  and  heard  at  his  visit  to  Dame  Custance. 
Goodluck  is  convinced  of  the  lady's  fickleness.  She  ar- 
rives, and  would  welcome  him  tenderly ;  but  of  course 
there  is  trouble.  Finally,  however,  on  the  evidence  of 
Tristram  Trusty,  she  is  freed  from  suspicion ;  and  Ralph, 
petitioning  for  pardon,  is  invited  to  the  wedding  supper, 
and  the  play  is  at  an  end.  It  is  rather  a  rude  perform- 
ance ;'^  but  it  contains  all  the  elements  of  a  regular  comedy 

*  The  following  extract  from  the  opening  of  the  third  Scene  of 
the  fourth  Act  of  this  comedy  is  a  fair  example  of  its  style: — 

Custance.   What  mean  these  lewde  felowes  thus  to  trouble  me  stil  ? 
Sym  Suresby  here,  perchaunce,  shal  thereof  deme  som  yll, 
And  shall  suspect  me  in  some  point  of  naughtinesse, 
And  they  come  hitherward. 

Sym  Suresby.  What  is  their  businesse? 

Cnst.  I  have  nought  to  them,  nor  they  to  me,  in  sadnesse. 

Sure.  Let  us  hearken  them ;  somewhat  there  is,  I  feare  it. 

Ralph  Roister.  I  will  speake  out  aloude  best,  that  she  may  heare  it. 

Merry-greek.  Nay,  alas  !  ye  may  so  feare  hir  out  of  hir  wit. 

Roister.  By  the  crosse  of  my  sworde,  I  will  hurt  hir  no  whit. 

3S 


THE  ENGLISH 

of  the  romantic  school ;  and  it  must  be  confessed  that 
many  a  duller  one  has  been  presented  to  a  modern  audi- 
ence. 

Yet  ruder  and  coarser  than  Ralph  Roister  Doistcr,  and 

Merry.  Will  ye  doe  no  harme  in  deede  ?    Shall  I  trust  j'oiir  worde  ? 

Roister.  By  Roister  Doister's  fayth,  I  will  speak,  but  in  horde. 

Sure.  Let  us  hearken  them;  somewhat  there  is,  I  feare  it. 

Roister.  I  will  speake  out  aloude,  1  care  not  who  heare  it. — 
Sirs,  see  that  my  harnesse,  my  tergat.  and  my  shield, 
Be  made  as  bright  now  as  when  I  was  last  in  field, 
As  white  as  I  shoulde  to  warre  againe  tomorrowe — 
For  sicke  shall  I  be  but  I  worke  some  folke  sorrowe. 
Therefore  see  that  all  shine  as  bright  as  sainct  George, 
Or  as  doth  a  key  newly  come  from  the  smith's  forge. 
I  woulde  have  my  sworde  and  harnesse  to  shine  so  bright 
That  I  might  therewith  dimme  mine  enimies  sight ; 
I  woulde  have  it  cast  beames  as  fast,  I  tell  you  playne, 
As  doth  the  glittering  grass  after  a  showre  of  raine. 
And  see  that,  in  case  I  shoulde  have  to  come  to  arminge, 
All  things  may  be  ready  at  a  moment's  warning. 
For  such  a  chaunce  may  chaunce  in  an  houre,  do  ye  heare? 

Merry.  As  pcrchaunce  shall  not  chaunce  againe  in  seven  yeare. 

Roister.  Now  draw  we  neare  to  hir,  and  heare  what  shal  be  sayde. 

Merry.  But  I  woulde  not  have  you  make  hir  too  muche  afrayde. 

Roister.  Well  founde,  sweete  wife  (I  trust)  for  al  this  your  soure 
looke 

Cust.  Wife!    Why  cal  ye  me  wife? 

Sure.  Wife  !  this  g^are  goeth  acrook. 

Merry.  Nay,  Mistresse  Custance,  I  warrant  you  our  letter 
Is  not  as  we  redde  e'en  nowe,  but  much  better ; 
And  where  ye  half  stomaked  this  gentleman  afore, 
For  this  same  letter  ye  wyll  love  him  nowe  therefore ; 
Nor  it  is  not  this  letter  though  ye  were  a  queene 
That  shoulde  breake  marriage  betweene  you  twaine,  I  weene. 

Cust.  I  did  not  refuse  hym  for  the  letter's  sake. 

Roister.  Then  ye  are  content  me  for  your  husbande  to  take. 

Cust.  You  for  my  husbande  to  take !    Nothing  lesse  truely. 

Roister.  Yea,  say  so  sweete  spouse,  afore  strangers  hardly. 

Mej'ry.  And  though  I  have  here  his  letter  of  love  with  me. 
Yet  his  rings  and  his  tokens  he  sent  keepe  safe  with  ye. 

Cust.  A  mischief  take  his  tokens,  and  him,  and  thee  too. 

36 


DRAMA 

less  amusing,  is  Gammer  Gurton's  Needle,  which,  until 
1818,  was  supposed  to  be  the  earliest  extant  English 
comedy,  but  which  was  not  written  until  about  thirty 
years  later  than  Udall's  play,  it  having  been  first  per- 
formed, as  Malone  reasonably  concludes,  at  Christ  Col- 
lege, Cambridge,  in  1566.  Its  author  was  John  Still, 
afterward  Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells,  who  was  born  in 
1543.  The  personages  in  this  play  are  all,  with  two  or 
three  exceptions,  rustics,  and  their  language  is  a  broad, 
provincial  dialect.  The  plot  turns  upon  the  simple  inci- 
dent of  Gammer  Gurton's  loss  of  her  needle  while  she  is 
mending  her  servant  Hodge's  breeches.  Sharp  is  the 
hunt  through  five  acts  after  this  needful  instrument — 
Hodge  even  pretending  to  have  an  interview  with  the 
Devil  upon  the  subject.  But  the  needle  is  not  found  until 
Hodge,  having  on  the  mended  garment,  is  hit  "  a  good 
blow  on  the  buttocks  "  by  the  bailiff,  whose  services  have 
been  called  in  ;  when  the  clown  discovers  that  Gammer 
Gurton's  needle,  like  Old  Rapid's  in  the  Road  to  Ruin, 
does  not  always  stick  in  the  right  place.  The  second  Act 
of  this  farrago  of  practical  jokes  and  coarse  humour  opens 
with  that  jolly  old  drinking-song  beginning, 

"  I  cannot  eat  but  little  meat. 
My  stomach  is  not  good," 

which  may  be  found  in  many  collections  of  lyric  verse. 

I\^.  Whether  it  was  that  moral-plays  satisfied  for  a 
long  time  our  forefathers'  desire  for  serious  entertain- 
ments, and  furnished  them  sufficient  occasion  for  that  re- 
flection upon  the  graver  interests  and  incidents  of  human 
life  which  it  is  tragedy's  chief  function  to  suggest,  or 
whether  the  public,  wearied  by  the  sententious  gravity  of 
the  moral-plays  (which,  however,  their  authors  had  often 
sought  to  retrieve  by  humorous  character  and  incident), 
demanded,  on  the  introduction  of  real  life  into  the  drama, 
that  only  its  light  and  merry  side  should  be  presented,  it 

2>7 


THE  ENGLISH 

is  certain  that  comedy  entered  upon  the  EngHsh  stage 
much  in  advance  of  her  elder  sister.  It  is  barely  possible 
that  a  play  upon  the  story  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  was  per- 
formed in  London  before  the  year  1562;  but  the  earliest 
tragedy  extant  in  our  language  is  F  err  ex  and  Porrex,  or 
Gorboduc,  all  of  which  was  probably  written  by  Thomas 
Sackville,  Earl  of  Dorset,  but  to  the  first  three  acts  of 
which  Thomas  Norton  has  a  disputed  claim.  This  play 
is  founded  on  events  in  the  fabulous  chronicles  of  Britain. 
The  principal  personages  are  Gorboduc,  King  of  Britain, 
about  B.  C.  600,  Videna,  his  wife,  and  Ferrex  and  Porrex, 
his  sons.  But  nobles,  councillors,  parasites,  a  lady,  and 
messengers  make  the  personages  number  thirteen.  The 
first  Act  is  occupied  with  the  division  of  the  kingdom  by 
Gorboduc  to  his  sons,  and  the  talk  thereupon.  The  sec- 
ond, with  the  fomenting  of  a  quarrel  between  the  brothers 
for  complete  sovereignty.  The  third,  with  the  events  of  a 
civil  war,  in  which  Porrex  kills  Ferrex.  In  the  fourth, 
the  queen,  who  most  loved  Ferrex,  kills  Porrex  while  he 
is  asleep  at  night  in  his  chamber ;  the  people  rise  in  wrath 
and  avenge  this  murder  by  the  death  of  both  Videna  and 
Gorboduc.  The  fifth  Act  is  occupied  by  a  bloody  sup- 
pression of  this  rebellion  by  the  nobles,  who,  in  their 
turn,  fall  into  dissension  ;  and  the  land,  without  a  rightful 
king,  and  rent  by  civil  strife,  becomes  desolate.  This 
tragedy  was  written  for  one  of  the  Christmas  festivals  of 
the  Inner  Temple,  to  be  played  by  the  gentlemen  of  that 
society ;  and  by  desire  of  Queen  Elizabeth  it  was  per- 
formed by  them  at  White-hall  on  the  i8th  of  January, 
1 561.  It  is  plain  that  the  author  of  this  play  meant  to  be 
very  elegant,  decorous,  and  classical ;  and  he  succeeded. 
Of  all  the  stirring  events  upon  which  the  tragedy  is  built, 
not  one  is  represented ;  all  are  told.  Even  Ferrex  and 
Porrex  are  not  brought  together  on  the  stage,  and  Videna 
does  not  meet  either  of  them  before  the  audience  after  the 
first  act.  Each  act  is  introduced  by  a  dumb  show,  in- 
tended to  be  symbolical  of  what  will  follow — a  common 
device  on  our  early  stage  which  was  ridiculed  by  Shake- 

38 


DRAMA 

speare  in  the  third  Act  of  Hamlet  ]^  and  each  act,  except 
the  last,  is  fohowed  by  a  moraUzing  and  explanatory 
chorus  recited  by  "  four  ancient  and  sage  men  of  Britain." 
F  err  ex  and  Porrex  is  remarkable  as  being  the  first  Eng- 
lish play  extant  in  blank  verse,  and  probably  it  was  the 
first  so  written.  It  is  to  be  wondered  that  even  in  this 
respect  it  was  ever  taken  as  a  model.  For  although  Sir 
Philip  Sidney  in  his  Defence  of  Poesy,  finding  fault  with 
Ferrex  and  Porrex  for  its  violation  of  the  unities  of  time 
and  place,  admits  that  it  is  so  "  full  of  stately  speeches  and 
well  sounding  phrases,  climbing  to  the  height  of  Seneca 
his  stile,  and  full  of  notable  morality,  which  it  doth  most 
delightfully  teach,"  yet  it  may  be  safely  said  that  another 
play  so  lifeless  in  movement,  so  commonplace  in  thought, 
so  utterly  undramatic  in  motive,  so  oppressively  didactic 
in  language,  so  absolutely  without  distinction  of  charac- 
ter among  its  personages,  cannot  be  found  in  our  dramatic 
literature.  From  Ferrex  and  Porrex  we  turn  even  to  the 
miracle-plays  and  moral-plays  with  relief,  if  not  with 
pleasure.  Some  notion  of  its  tediousness  may  be  gath- 
ered from  the  fact  that  it  closes  with  a  speech  one  hun- 
dred lines  in  length,  and  that  the  first  act  is  chiefly  occu- 
pied with  three  speeches  by  three  councillors,  which  to- 

*  "  The  Order  and  Signiiication  of  the  Domnie  Shew  before  the 
fourth  Act. 

"  First  the  musick  of  howeboies  began  to  playe,  during  which 
came  from  under  the  stage,  as  though  out  of  hell,  three  furies, 
Alecto,  Megera,  and  Ctisiphone  clad  in  blacke  garmentes 
sprinkled  with  bloud  and  flames,  their  bodies  girt  with  snakes, 
their  beds  spred  with  serpentes  in  stead  of  heire,  the  one  bearing 
in  hand  a  snake,  the  other  a  whip,  and  the  third  a  burning  fire- 
brand ;  ech  driving  before  them  a  king  and  a  queene,  which  moved 
by  the  furies  unnaturally  had  slaine  their  owne  children.  The 
names  of  the  kings  and  queenes  were  these,  Tantalus,  Medea, 
Athamas,  Ino,  Cambises,  Althea ;  after  that  the  furies  and  these 
had  passed  about  the  stage  thrise,  they  departed,  and  than  the 
musick  ceased:  hereby  was  signified  the  unnatural  murders  to 
follow,  that  is  to  say,  Porrex,  slaine  by  his  owne  mother ;  and  of 
king  Gorboduc  and  queene  Videna,  killed  by  their  owne  subjects." 

39 


THE  ENGLISH 

gether  make  two  hundred  and  sixty  verses."^     This  play 
demands  notice  because  it  is  our  first  tragedy,  our  first 

*  The  following  passage,  in  which  the  death  of  Porrex  is  an- 
nounced, is  a  favourable  example  of  the  style  of  this  play : — 
Marcella.  Oh  where  is  ruth  or  where  is  pitie  now? 

Whether  is  gentle  hart  and  mercy  fled? 

Are  they  exiled  out  of  our  stony  brestes, 

Never  to  make  returne?  is  all  the  world 

Drowned  in  blood  and  sonke  in  crueltie? 

If  not  in  woman  mercy  may  be  found 

If  not  (alas)  within  the  mother's  brest 

To  her  owne  childe  to  her  owne  flesh  and  blood; 

If  ruthe  be  banished  thence,  if  pitie  there 

May  have  no  place,  if  there  no  gentle  hart 

Do  live  and  dwell,  where  should  we  seek  it  then? 
Gorhoduc.  Madame   (alas)  what  means  your  wofull  tale? 
Marcella.  O  silly  woman  I !  why  to  this  houre 

Have  kinde  and  fortune  thus  deferred  my  breath, 

That  I  should  live  to  see  this  dolefull  day? 

Will  ever  wight  beleve  that  such  hard  hart 

Could  rest  within  the  cruell  mother's  brest, 

With  her  owne  hande  to  slaye  her  only  sonne? 

But  out  (alas)  these  eyes  behelde  the  same, 

They  saw  the  driery  sight,  and  are  become 

Most  ruthfull  recordes  of  the  bloody  fact. 

Porrex  (alas)  is  by  his  mother  slaine. 

And  with  her  hand  and  wofull  thing  to  tell ; 

While  slumbering  on  his  carefull  bed  he  restes. 

His  hart  stabde  in  with  knife  is  reft  of  life. 
Gorhoduc.  O  Eubulus,  oh  draw  this  sword  of  ours. 

And  pearce  this  hart  with  sp^ed !     O  hateful  light, 

O  lothsome  life,  O  sweete  and  welcome  death, 

Deare  Eubulus,  worke  this  we  thee  besech ! 
Eubulus.  Pacient  your  grace,  perhappes  he  liveth  yet, 

With  wound  receaved,  but  not  of  certain  death. 
Gorhoduc.  O  let  us  then  repayre  unto  the  place, 

And  see  if  Porrex  live,  or  thus  be  slaine. 
Marcella.  Alas  he  liveth  not,  it  is  to  true. 

That  with  these  eyes  of  him  a  perelesse  prince^ 

Sonne  to  a  king  and  in  the  flower  of  youth. 

Even  with  a  twinkle  a  senselesse  stock  I  saw. 

40 


DRAMA 

play  written  in  blank  verse,  but  for  no  other  reason.  It 
had  no  perceptible  effect  upon  the  English  drama,  and 
marks  no  stage  in  its  progress.  In  that  regard  it  might 
as  well  have  been  written  in  Greece  and  in  Greek,  or  in 
ancient  British  by  Gorboduc  himself ;  for  in  either  case 
its  motive  and  plan  could  not  then  have  been  more  foreign 
to  the  genius  of  English  dramatic  literature.  And  it  is 
now  proper  to  say  that  translated  plays  adapted  from 
Greek  and  Latin  authors,  of  which  there  were  many  per- 
formed in  the  earlier  part  of  Elizabeth's  reign,  are  here 
passed  by  without  notice,  not  merely  because  they  were 
translations  and  adaptations,  but  because,  not  being  an 
outgrowth  of  the  English  character,  they  were  entirely 
without  influence  upon  the  development  of  the  English 
drama,  in  an  account  of  which  they  have  no  proper  place. 
The  Supposes  translated  from  Ariosto  by  George  Gas- 
coigne,  and  acted  at  Gray's  Inn  in  1566,  must  be  men- 
tioned as  the  earliest  extant  play  in  English  prose.  The 
fact  is  significant  indeed,  that  none  of  the  many  plays 
written  especially  for  the  court  and  for  the  learned  soci- 
eties and  the  elegant  people  of  that  day  have  left  any 
traces  even  of  a  temporary  influence  upon  our  stage.  The 
English  drama,  unlike  that  of  France,  had  its  germ  in 
the  instincts,  and  its  growth  with  the  growth,  of  the  whole 
English  people. 

Up  to,  and  even  past,  the  Elizabethan  era,  the  English 
drama  was  rude  in  style  and  in  construction,  gross  in 
sentiment  and  in  language.  Its  personages  had  little 
character  or  keeping,  its  incidents  little  probability  or 
connection.  A  true  dramatic  style,  by  which  character 
is  evolved  and  emotion  revealed,  was  yet  unformed.  The 
cultivated  people  of  that  time  saw  these  defects,  except 
the  last,  but  devised  for  them  the  wrong  remedy.  With 
their  heads  full  of  the  ancient  classics,  they  judged  their 
own  theatre  by  a  foreign  standard,  to  which  they  would 
have  forced  it  to  conform.*     In  this  English  drama,  rude, 

*  George  Whetstone,  in  the  dedication  of  his  "  Promos  and  Cas- 
sandra," the  incidents  of  which  Shakespeare  used  in  his  Measure 

41 


THE  ENGLISH 

coarse  and  confused,  there  was  yet  an  inherent  vitaHty. 
It  was  native  to  the  English  mind,  and  it  sought  to  pre- 
sent even  in  tragedy  an  ideahzed  picture  of  real  life  which 
had  never  yet  been  attempted. 

for  Measure,  and  which  was  published  in  1578,  gives  us  the  fol- 
lowing criticism  upon  the  English  drama  of  that  day :  "  The 
Englishman  in  this  qualitie  is  most  vaine,  indiscreete,  and  out  of 
order :  he  first  groundes  his  worke  on  impossibilities :  then,  in 
three  howers,  ronnes  he  throwe  the  worlde :  marryes,  gets  chil- 
dren, makes  children  men,  men  to  conquer  kingdomes,  murder 
monsters,  and  bringeth  Gods  from  Heaven,  and  fetcheth  divils 
from  Hel.  And  (that  which  is  worst)  their  ground  is  not  so 
imperfect  as  their  workinge  indiscreete ;  not  waying,  so  the  peo- 
ple laugh,  though  they  laugh  them  (for  their  follies)  to  scorn. 
Manye  tymes.  to  make  myrthe,  they  make  a  clowne  companion 
with  a  Kinge :  in  theyr  grave  Councils  they  allow  the  advice  of 
fools ;  yea,  they  use  one  order  of  speach  for  all  persons,  a  grose 
Indecorum^  etc. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney,  in  a  passage  of  his  Defence  of  Poesy  (writ- 
ten about  1583)  which  has  been  often  quoted,  but  which  is  too 
important  to  be  omitted  here,  says :  "  Our  Tragedies  and  Come- 
dies are  not  without  cause  cried  out  against,  observing  rules 
neither  of  honest  civilitie  nor  skilfuU  Poetrie.  Excepting  Gor- 
boduck  (againe  I  say  of  those  that  I  have  scene)  which  notwith- 
standing, as  it  is  full  of  statelie  speeches,  and  well  sounding 
phrases,  climing  to  the  height  of  Seneca  his  stile,  and  as  full  of 
notable  moralitie,  which  it  doth  most  delightfully  teach,  and' so 
obtaine  the  verie  end  of  Poesie,  yet  in  truth  it  is  very  defections 
in  the  circumstances,  which  grieves  me,  because  it  might  not  re- 
maine  as  an  exact  modell  of  all  Tragedies.  For  it  is  faulty  in 
place  and  time,  the  two  necessarie  companions  of  all  corporall 
nctions.  For  where  the  Stage  should  alway  represent  but  one 
place,  and  the  uttermost  time  presupposed  in  it,  should  be  both 
by  Aristotle's  precept  and  common  reason,  but  one  day,  there  is 
both  many  dayes  and  manie  places  artificially  imagined.  But  if 
it  bee  so  in  Gorboduck,  how  much  more  in  all  the  rest,  where  you 
shall  have  Asia  of  the  one  side,  and  A f rick  of  the  other,  and  so 
many  other  under  kingdoms,  that  the  Player,  when  he  comes  in, 
must  ever  begin  with  telling  where  he  is,  or  else  the  tale  will  not 
be  conceived.  Now  you  shall  have  three  ladies  walke  to  gather 
flowers,  and  then  we  must  believe  the  stage  to  be  a  garden.     By 

42 


i 


DRAMA 

Our  drama,  advancing  through  centuries,  had  slowly 
reached  this  stage  of  growth,  where  if  its  development 
had  been  stayed,  its  history  would  have  been  almost  with- 
out interest,  except  to  the  literary  antiquary,  when  sud- 
denly its  homely,  uncouth  bud  burst  into  flower  so  sweet, 
of  beauty  so  glorious,  so  perennial,  as  ever  after  to  glad- 
den, to  perfume,  and  to  adorn  the  ages.  The  rapidity  of 
this  transition  is  astonishing.  It  is  almost  like  magical 
transformation.  In  less  than  twenty  years  from  the  time 
when  the  best  plays  yet  produced  by  English  authors  were 
intrinsically  unworthy  of  a  place  in  literature,  the  English 
stage  had  become  illustrious. 

This  change  was  brought  about  by  the  great  and  in- 
creasing taste  of  the  day  for  dramatic  performances, 
which  called  into  the  service  of  the  theatre  every  needy 
hand  that  held  a  ready  pen.  A  crowd  of  young  men  left 
the  learned  professions  in  London,  or  abandoning  rustic 
homes,  flocked  thither  to  make  money  by  writing  plays. 
Among  these  men  seven  attained  distinction ;  and  yet  not 

and  by  we  hear  newes  of  a  shipwrack  in  the  same  place  ;  then  we 
are  to  blame  if  we  accept  it  not  for  a  rocke.  Upon  the  backe  of 
that  comes  out  a  hideous  monster  with  fire  and  smoke,  and  then 
the  miserable  beholders  are  bound  to  take  it  for  a  cave;  while, 
in  the  meantime,  two  armies  flie  in,  represented  with  four  swords 
and  bucklers,  and  then  what  hard  hart  will  not  receive  it  for  a 
pitched  field?  Now,  of  time  they  are  much  more  liberal;  for 
ordinarie  it  is  that  two  young  Princes  fall  in  love :  after  many 
traverses  she  is  got  with  child,  delivered  of  a  fair  boy ;  he  is  lost, 
groweth  a  man,  falleth  in  love,  and  is  ready  to  get  another  child, 
and  all  this  in  two  houres'  space ;  which  how  absurd  it  is  in 
sense,  even  sense  may  imagine  and  art  hath  taught,  and  all 
ancient  examples  justified,  and  at  this  daye  the  ordinarie  players 
in  Italie  wil  not  erre  in  .  .  .  But  besides  these  grosse  absurdi- 
ties how  all  their  Playes  be  neither  right  Tragedies  nor  right 
Comedies,  mingling  Kings  and  Clownes  not  because  the  matter 
so  carieth  it,  but  thrust  in  the  Clowne  by  head  and  shoulders,  to 
play  a  part  in  Majestical  matters  with  neither  decencie  nor  dis- 
cretion;  so  as  neither  the  admiration  and  commis'!"-ntion.  nor 
right  sportfulness  is  by  their  mongrel  Tragi-comedy  obtained." 

43 


•        "  THE  ENGLISH 

only  so  inferior,  but  of  so  little  intrinsic  enduring  interest, 
was  the  work  of  six  of  them,  that,  with  one  and  hardly 
one  exception,  their  names  would  not  have  been  know^n 
outside  of  purely  literary  circles,  but  for  the  seventh. 
They  were  Thomas  Kyd,John  Lilly,  George  Peele,  George 
Chapman,  Robert  Greene,  Christopher  jMarlowe,  and  Wil- 
liam Shakespeare.  Of  the  six,  the  oldest  whose  age  is 
known  to  us  was  only  ten  years  the  senior  of  the  seventh, 
and  the  most  eminent,  ^Marlowe,  was  born  but  two  years 
before  him/''  Shakespeare  got  to  work  in  London  very 
early  in  life.  He  was  using  his  pen  as  a  dramatic  writer 
there  before  he  was  twenty-four  years  old.  These  men 
were  therefore  in  both  the  strictest  and  in  the  broadest 
sense  his  contemporaries — his  contemporaries  as  men  and 
as  authors.  The  mere  fact  that  he  found  four  of  them, 
Kyd,  Peele,  Green,  and  ]\Iarlow^e,  in  the  front  rank  of 
dramatic  writers  on  his  arrival  in  London,  does  not  prop- 
erly entitle  them  to  consideration  as  his  predecessors  in 
English  drama.  Being  so  absolutely  contemporaneous 
with  him  in  age,  they  could  be  justly  regarded  as  his  pred- 
ecessors only  as  having  been  the  founders  of  a  school  of 
which  he  was  an  eminent  disciple,  or  to  which  he  had 
established  a  rival  or  a  successor.  But  he  stood  to  them 
in  neither  of  these  relations.  He  and  they  were  all,  with 
a  single  exception,  of  one  school,  of  which  neither  one 
of  them  was  the  founder.  \Mth  this  one  exception  these 
men  were  all  striving  to  do  the  same  thing,  at  the  same 
time,  in  the  same  way.  The  time  had  come  when  it  was 
to  be  done,  and  the  time  brought  the  men  who  were  to 
do  it,  each  according  to  his  ability.  And  not  only  were 
their  aims  identical,  but  there  is  the  best  reason,  short  of 
competent  contemporary  testimony,  for  believing  that  four 
of  them,  including  Shakespeare,  were  colaborers  upon 
still  existing  works. 

*. Lilly  was  born  about  1553,  Peele  about  the  same  year,  Chap- 
man in  1559.  Greene  about  1560,  Marlowe  about  1562.  Shakespeare 
in  1564.     The  date  of  Kyd's  birth  can  only  be  conjectured. 

44 


DRAMA 

The  exception  to  this  unity  of  purpose  was  Joh^n  Lilly, 
the  author  of  Euphiies.  Lilly  is  known  in  dramatic  litera- 
ture as  the  author  of  eight  comedies  written  to  be  per- 
formed at  the  court  of  Elizabeth.'''  They  are  in  all  re- 
spects opposed  to  the  genius  of  the  Enghsh  drama.  They 
do  not  even  pretend  to  be  representations  of  human  life 
and  human  character,  but  are  pure  fantasy  pieces,  in 
which  the  personages  are  a  heterogeneous  medley  of  Gre- 
cian gods  and  goddesses,  and  impossible,  colourless  crea- 
tures with  sublunary  names,  all  thinking  with  one  brain, 
and  speaking  with  one  tongue — the  conceitful,  crotchety 
brain  and  the  dainty,  well-trained  tongue  of  clever,  witty 
John  Lilly.  They  are  all  in  prose,  but  contain  some 
pretty,  fanciful  verses  called  songs,  which  are  as  unlyrical 
in  spirit  as  the  plays  in  which  they  appear  are  undramatic. 
From  these  plays  Shakespeare  borrowed  a  few  thoughts  ; 
but  they  exercised  no  modifying  influence  upon  his  genius, 
nor  did  they  at  all  conform  to  that  of  the  English  drama, 
upon  which  they  are  a  mere  grotesque  excrescence. 
Chapman,  one  of  the  elder  and  the  stronger  of  the  six 
above  named,  is  not  known  as  the  author,  even  in  part, 
of  any  play  older  than  Shakespeare's  earliest  perform- 
ances He  probably  entered  upon  dramatic  composition  at 
a  somewhat  later  period  in  life  than  either  of  the  others ; 
and  as  a  dramatist  he  is  properly  to  be  passed  over  in 
this  place,  as  not  even  having  been  Shakespeare's  prede- 
cessor, in  the  mere  order  of  time,  by  even  that  very  brief 
period  which  may  be  admitted  in  the  cases  of  Peele, 
Greene,  and  Marlowe.  The  styles  of  these  three  dram- 
atists are  commented  upon,  and  extracts  from  their 
plays  are  given,    in   an   Essay  upon   the   Authorship   of 

*  Lilly's  Plays  are  Endimion,  Campaspe,  Saplw  and  Phaon, 
Gallathea,  Mydas,  Mother  Bombie,  The  Woman  in  the  Moone, 
and  Love's  Metamorphosis.  The  Maid's  Metamorphosis,  which 
was  published  anonymously  in  1600,  has  been  attributed'  to  him, 
as  also  was  A  Warning  for  Fair  Women,  which  was  published 
anonymously  in  1599;  but  neither  of  them  bears  traces  of  his 
style.  _ 

45 


THE  ENGLISH 

King  Henry  the  Sixth,  where  they  are  particularly 
considered  in  their  relation  to  Shakespeare.  I  will, 
however,  notice  here  the  opinion  generally  received, 
that  Marlowe's  talents  were  very  far  superior  to  those 
of  either  Greene  or  Peele — a  judgement  to  which  I 
cannot  entirely  assent,  as  far  as  Peele  is  concerned. 
Peele's  plays,  it  is  true,  lack  some  of  Marlowe's  fire 
and  fury ;  but  they  are  also  without  much  of  his  fustian. 
Peek's  characters  are  less  strongly  marked  that  j\Iar- 
lowe's ;  but  they  are  also  less  absurd  and  extravagant, 
and,  in  my  opinion,  they  are  equally  well  discriminated, 
though  that  is  little  praise.  Peele's  David  and  Bathsheha 
is  a  play  which  for  the  genuineness  of  its  feeling,  if  not 
for  the  harmony  of  its  verse,  Marlowe  might  have  been 
glad  to  own;  and  The  Battle  of  Alcanzar  is  in  the  same 
furious,  bloody  vein  with  his  Tainburlaine,  and  equal,  if 
not  superior,  to  it  in  sense  and  keeping.  It  is  also  note- 
worthy that  the  Prologue  to  Peele's  Arraignment  of  Paris, 
which  was  published  in  1584,  when  Marlowe  was  but 
twenty  years  old,  and  before  he  had  taken  his  Bachelor's 
degree  at  Cambridge,  is,  for  its  union  of  completeness  of 
measure  with  variety  of  pause,  unsurpassed  by  any  dra- 
matic blank  verse,  that  of  one  play  excepted,  which  was 
written  before  the  time  of  Shakespeare.  The  critical 
reader  who  is  familiar  with  INIarlowe's  works  must  con- 
stantly remember  that  there  is  every  reason  for  believing 
that  Edzuard  II. — his  best  play  in  versification  no  less 
than  in  style,  sentiment,  and  character — was  written  after 
1590,  and  after  the  production  of  The  First  Part  of  the 
Contention  and  The  True  Tragedy. 

With  regard  to  these  dramatists  there  only  remains  to 
be  noticed  the  claim  which  has  been  set  up  for  one  of 
them,  Marlowe,  that  he  was  the  first  who  used  blank  verse 
upon  our  public  stage,  and  "  the  first  who  harmonized  it 
with  variety  of  pause."  As  to  which  I  will  only  say, 
briefly,  that  although  it  is  probably  true  that  he  in  his 
Tamhurlaine  made  one  of  the  earliest  eflforts  to  bring 
blank  verse  into  vogue  in  plays  written  for  the  general 

46 


DRAMA 

public,  and  to  substitute  the  roll  and  flow  of  measured 
rhythm  for  the  feebler  and  more  monotonous  music  of 
rhyme  in  dramatic  poetry  intended  for  uncultured  as  well 
as  cultured  ears,  I  cannot  find  in  this  endeavor  reason  for 
giving  him  the  credit  due  to  an  innovator,  much  less  that 
which  belongs  to  an  inventor.  Blank  verse,  as  we  have 
seen,  was  used  in  plays  produced  for  special  occasions  and 
audiences  many  years  before  i\Iarlowe  wrote ;  and  he, 
writing  only  for  the  general  theatre-going  public,  seems 
merely  to  have  used,  and  somewhat  improved,  an  instru- 
ment which  he  found  made  to  his  hand.  Among  the  dram- 
atists who  preceded  Marlowe  in  the  use  of  blank  verse 
on  the  public  stage  is  one  who,  in  my  judgement,  wrote  it 
with  a  spirit  and  a  freedom  which  Marlowe  himself  hardly 
excelled.  This  dramatist  is  the  author  of  Jeronimo.  A 
continuation  of  this  play,  called  The  Spanish  Tragedy,  or 
Hieronimo  is  mad  again,  which  we  know,  upon  Thomas 
Heywood's  testimony,  was  written  by  Thomas  Kyd,  was 
one  of  the  most  popular  plays  of  the  Elizabethan  era. 
Hitherto  it  has  been  assumed  that  Kyd  was  also  the  au- 
thor of  Jeronimo.  But  a  comparison  of  the  two  plays 
shows  them  to  be  so  unlike  in  all  respects — in  versification, 
in  language,  in  dramatic  characterization,  and  in  all  dis- 
tinctive poetic  traits — that  it  seems  very  clear  that  the  fact 
that  Kyd  did  write  The  Spanish  Tragedy  is  conclusive 
evidence  against  his  authorship  of  the  elder  play.  It 
would  be  difficult  for  two  contemporary  dramatic  poets, 
in  their  treatment  of  the  same  or  a  very  similar  subject, 
to  produce  two  works  more  unlike  in  all  particulars.  The 
Spanish  Tragedy  had  been  written,  as  we  know  upon  Ben 
Jonson's  testimony,  long  enough  before  1587  to  be  then 
an  old  story.  We  may  be  equally  sure  that  the  play  of 
which  it  is  a  continuation  had  preceded  it  some  years. 
In  structure  Jeronimo  bears  strong  traces  of  the  pre- 
Elizabethan  era.  It  opens  with  a  dumb  show  explana- 
tory of  the  situation  of  the  characters  before  the  action 
commences ;  the  action  does  not  "  grow  to  a  point,"  and 
the  play  consequently  reads  less  like  a  tragedy  than  an 

47 


THE  ENGLISH 

episode  of  history  dramatized  with  little  art ;  quite  one 
half  of  the  play  is  in  rhyme ;  and  among  its  dramatis  pcr- 
sonce  one  is  allegorical — Revenge.  This  personage  and 
the  Ghost  of  Andrea,  the  slain  lover  who  appears  witli 
him  in  the  last  scene  of  Jeronimo,  are  also  used  by  K}  d 
in  The  Spanish  Tragedy ;  but  in  that  they  merely  form  a 
chorus,  and  neither  mingle  in  nor  influence  the  action. 
The  traits  of  Jeronimo  just  mentioned,  and  particularly 
the  first  and  last,  are  indicative  of  a  period  earlier  than 
that  known  as  the  Elizabethan  era  ;  while  the  versification 
and  characterization  belong  to  that  era,  and  indeed  would 
disgrace  none  of  its  dramatists  except  Shakespeare  him- 
self, and  are  hardly  unworthy  of  his  prentice  hand. 
Dumb  shows  went  out  as  Elizabethan  dramatists  began  to 
occupy  the  stage ;  and  allegory  is  the  distinctive  trait  of 
the  period  of  the  moral-plays,  although,  as  we  have  seen, 
it  yielded  place  gradually  to  real  life.  The  use  of  dumb 
show,  and  especially  the  introduction  of  an  allegorical 
character  among  the  dramatis  pcrsoncc  of  a  tragedy  of 
real  life  written  in  blank  verse,  of  which  no  other  example 
is  known  to  me,  distinctly  mark  the  transitional  type  of 
Jeronimo,  which  may  be  regarded  as  a  fine  and  character- 
istic example  of  English  tragedy  in  the  stage  of  its  devel- 
opment immediately  preceding  that  which  produced 
Shakespeare.  And  indeed  this  play  and  its  continuation, 
in  spite  of  the  crudeness  of  both  and  the  childishness  of 
the  latter,  seem  to  have  left  stronger  traces  of  influence 
upon  Shakespeare's  works  than  any  other,  or  than  all 
others,  written  by  his  predecessors  or  his  contemporaries. 
The  English  drama,  and  not  the  stage  and  the  theatres, 
before  the  time  of  Shakespeare,  is  the  subject  of  this 
account ;  but  it  may  be  fitly  closed  with  a  very  brief  de- 
scription of  the  playhouses  and  the  theatrical  management 
of  his  early  years.  The  general  use  of  inn-yards  as  places 
of  dramatic  amusement  has  been  already  mentioned  in 
the  course  of  remarks  upon  the  moral-play  ;  and  when 
Shakespeare  arrived  in  London,  at  least  three  inns  there 
— the  Bull,  the  Cross  Keys,  and  the  Bell  Savage — were 

48 


DRAMA 

thus  regularly  occupied.  But,  by  a  striking  coincidence, 
with  the  Elizabethan  era  of  our  drama  came  theatres 
proper,  buildings  specially  adapted  to  the  needs  of  actors 
and  audiences.  Shakespeare  found  three  such  in  the  me- 
tropolis— four,  if  to  The  Theatre,  The  Curtain,  and  Black- 
friars,  we  are  to  add  Paris  Garden,  where  bear-baiting 
shared  the  boards  with  comedy.  All  the  theatres  of 
Shakespeare's  time  were  probably  built  of  wood  and 
plaster.  Of  the  three  above  mentioned,  the  Blackfriars 
belonged  to  the  class  called  private  theatres — we  know  not 
why,  unless  because  the  private  theatres  were  entirely 
roofed  in,  while  in  the  others  the  pit  was  uncovered,  and 
of  course  the  stage  and  the  gallery  exposed  to  the  external 
air.  A  flag  was  kept  flying  from  a  staff  on  the  roof  dur- 
ing the  performance.  Inside  there  were  the  stage,  the 
pit,  the  boxes  and  galleries,  much  as  we  have  them  now- 
adays. In  the  public  theatres,  the  pit,  separated  from 
the  stage  by  paling,  was  called  the  yard,  and  was  without 
seats.  The  price  of  admission  to  the  pit  or  yard  varied, 
according  to  the  pretensions  of  the  theatre,  from  two- 
pence, and  even  a  penny,  to  sixpence ;  that  to  the  boxes 
or  rooms  from  a  shilling  to  two  shillings,  and  even,  on 
extraordinary  occasions,  half  a  crown. 

The  performances  usually  commenced  at  three  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon ;  but  the  theatre  appears  to  have  been 
always  artificially  lighted,  in  the  body  of  the  house  by 
cressets  and  upon  the  stage  by  large  rude  chandeliers. 
The  small  band  of  musicians  sat,  not  in  an  orchestra  in 
front  of  the  stage,  but,  it  would  seem,  in  a  balcony  pro- 
jecting from  the  proscenium.  People  went  early  to  the 
theatre  for  the  purpose  of  securing  good  places,  and 
while  waiting  for  the  play  to  begin,  they  read,  gamed, 
smoked,  drank,  and  cracked  nuts  and  jokes  together. 
Those  who  set  up  for  wits,  gallants,  or  critics,  liked  to 
appear  upon  the  stage  itself,  which  they  were  allowed  to 
do  all  through  the  performance,  lying  upon  the  rushes 
with  which  the  stage  was  strewn,  or  sitting  upon  stools, 
for  which  they  paid  an  extra  price. 

49 


THE  ENGLISH 

Pickpockets,  when  detected  at  the  theatre,  seem  to  have 
been  put  in  an  extempore  pillory  on  the  stage,  among  the 
wits  and  gallants,  at  whose  tongues,  if  not  whose  hands, 
they  doubtless  suffered.  Kempe,  the  actor,  in  his  Nine 
Daies  Wonder,  A.  D.  1600,  compares  a  man  to  "  such  a 
one  as  we  tye  to  a  poast  on  our  stage  for  all  the  people  to 
wonder  at  when  they  are  taken  pilfering," 

Certain  very  peculiar  dramatic  companies  should  not 
be  passed  by  entirely  without  notice.  They  were  com- 
posed altogether  of  children.  The  boys  of  St.  Paul's 
choir,  those  of  Westminster  school,  and  a  special  com- 
pany called  the  Children  of  the  Revels,  were  the  most 
important.  The  first  two  acted  under  the  direction  of 
the  Master  of  St.  Paul's  choir  and  of  the  school,  the 
last  under  that  of  the  Master  of  the  Revels.  Their  per- 
formances were  much  admired,  and  the  companies  of 
adult  actors  at  the  theatres  were  piqued,  and  perhaps 
touched  in  pocket,  by  the  public  favour  of  these  youn- 
kers.  Shakespeare  shows  this  by  a  speech  which  he  puts 
into  Rosencranz's  mouth  (Hamlet,  II.  ii.).  Their  audi- 
ences were  generally  composed  of  the  higher  classes,  and 
they  acted  plays  of  established  reputation  only.  This  ap- 
pears from  the  following  passage  in  Jack  Drum's  Enter- 
tainment, published  in  1601,  which  was  itself  played  by 
the  children  of  Paul's,  as  appears  by  its  title-page : — 

• 
Sir  Edzi'ard.  I  sawe  the  Children  of  Pawles  last  night. 

And  troth  they  pleas'd  me  prettie,  prettie  well. 

The  Apes  in  time  will  do  it  handsomely. 
Planet.  V  faith  I  like  the  Audience  that  frequenteth  there, 

With  much  applause.    A  man  shall  not  be  choakte 

With  the  stench  of  Garlicke,  nor  be  pasted 

To  the  barny  lackett  of  a  Beer-brewer. 
Brabant,  Jn.  'Tis  a  good  gentle  audience,  and  I  hope  the  Boyes 

Will  come  one  day  into  the  Courte  of  Requests. 
Brabant,  Sig.  I,  and  they  had  good  playes,  but  they  produce 

Such  mustie  fopperies  of  antiquitie 

As  do  not  sute  the  humorous  ages  backs 

With  cloathes  in  fashion. 

50 


DRAMA 

The  performance  was  announced  by  three  flourishes  of 
trumpets.  At  the  third  sounding,  t]:e  curtain,  which  was 
divided  in  the  middle  from  top  to  bottom,  and  ran  upon 
rods,  was  drawn,  and  after  the  prologue  the  actors  en- 
tered. The  prologue  was  spoken  by  a  person  who  wore 
a  long  black  cloak  and  a  wreath  of  bays  upon  his  head. 
The  reason  of  which  costume  \vas,  that  prologues  were 
first  spoken  by  the  authors  of  plays  themselves,  who  wore 
the  poetical  costume  of  the  middle  ages,  such  as  we  see 
it  in  the  old  portraits  of  Ariosto,  Tasso,  and  others. 
When  the  authors  themselves  no  longer  appeared  as  pro- 
logue, the  actors  who  were  their  proxies  assumed  their 
professional  habit.  Poor  Robert  Greene,  the  debauched 
lilaywright  and  poet,  begged  upon  his  miserable  death- 
bed that  his  coffin  might  be  strewed  with  bays ;  and  the 
cr)bbler's  wife,  at  whose  house  he  died,  respected  this 
clinging  of  the  wretched  author  to  his  right  to  Parnassian 
b.onors,  and  fulfilled  his  last  request.  In  the  earlier  part 
of  the  Elizabethan  era  it  was  common  for  all  the  actors 
who  were  to  take  parts  in  the  play  to  appear  in  character 
and  pass  over  the  stage  before  the  performance  began. 
This  w^as  a  relic  of  the  days  of  the  miracle-plays  and 
moral-plays.  In  the  course  of  the  play  he  who  played 
the  clown  would  favor  the  audience  with  outbreaks  of 
extemporaneous  wit  and  practical  joking,  in  virtue  of  a 
time-honoured  privilege  claimed  by  the  clowns  to  "  speak 
more  than  was  set  down  for  them."  Indeed,  extempore 
dialogue  seems  to  have  been  permitted  to,  if  not  expected 
from,  the  representatives  of  comic  characters.  Such  stage 
directions  as  the  following  from  Greene's  Tn  quoque 
(A.  D.  1614)  are  not  uncommon  :  "  Here  they  tzvo  talke 
and  rayle  zi'hat  they  list;  then  Rash  speakes  to  Staynes." 

"  All  speake.  Ud's  foot  dost  thou  stand  by  and  do 
nothing?  come  talke  and  drown  her  clamors.  Here  they 
all  talke  and  Joyce  gives  over  weeping  and  Exit." 

Between  the  acts  there  was  dancing  and  singing ;  and 
after  the  play,  a  jig,  which  was  a  kind  of  comic  solo 
sung,  said,  acted,  and  danced  by  the  clown  to  the  accom- 

51 


THE  ENGLISH 

paniment  of  his  own  pipe  and  tabor.  Each  day's  exhi- 
bition was  closed  by  a  prayer  for  the  Queen,  offered  by 
all  the  actors  kneeling. 

The  stage  exhibited  no  movable  scenery.  It  was  hung 
with  painted  cloths  and  arras ;  when  tragedy  was  played, 
the  hangings  were  sometimes,  at  least,  sable :  over  the 
stage  was  a  blue  canopy,  called  "  the  heavens.''  Although 
there  was  no  proper  scenery,  there  was  ample  provision  of 
rude  properties,  such  as  towers,  tombs,  dragons,  painted 
pasteboard  banquets,  and  the  like.  Furniture  was  used, 
of  course,  and  was,  in  many  cases,  the  only  means  of  in- 
dicating a  change  of  scene,  which,  indeed,  in  most  cases 
was  left  to  the  imagination  of  the  audience,  helped,  it 
might  be,  as  Sir  Philip  Sidney  says,  if  the  supposed  scene 
were  Thebes,  by  *'  seeing  Thebes  written  in  great  letters 
on  an  old  door."  *  Machinery  and  trap-doors  wxre  freely 
used,  and  gods  and  goddesses  were  let  down  from  and 
hoisted  up  to  the  heavens  in  chairs  moved  by  pulleys  and 

*  Such  stage  directions  as  the  following  show  how  very  rude 
were  the  devices  for  indicating  a  change  of  scene  in  the  latter 
part  of  the  i6th  and  the  early  part  of  the  i/th  centuries: — 
"Enter  Syhilla  lying  in  child  bed  zcith  her  child  lying  by  her." 

Heywood's  Golden  Age,  1611. 
"Enter  a  shoemaker  sitting  on  the  stage  at  work.     Jenkins  to 
him." 

Greene's  George-a-Greene,  1599. 

In  the  following  passage  the  audience  were  evidently  expected 
to  "  make  believe  "  that  a  few  steps  across  the  stage  was  a  going 
10  the  town's  end  : — 

Shoemaker.  Come.  sir.  will  you  go  to  the  town's  end  now.  sir? 
Jenkins.  Ay  sir,  come. — Now  we  are  at  the  town's  end;  what  say 
you  now? 

Idem,  ut  supra. 

In  the  plays  of  that  period,  after  a  murder  or  killing  in  com- 
bat, the  direction  is  generally  to  the  survivor.  "  Exit  with  the 
body."  There  was  no  device  by  which  the  dead  body  could  be 
shut  out  from  the  audience,  that  the  next  scene  might  go  on 
without  its  presence. 


DRAMA 

tackle  that  creaked  and  groaned  in  the  most  sublunary  and 
mechanical  manner.  At  the  back  of  the  stage  was  a  bal- 
cony, which,  like  the  furniture  in  the  Duke  Aranza's  co.- 
tage  served  '*  a  hundred  uses."  It  was  inner  room,  upper 
room,  window,  balcony,  battlements,  hill  side,  ■Mount 
Olympus,  any  place,  in  fact,  which  was  supposed  to  be 
separated  from  and  above  the  scene  of  the  main  action,  it 
was  in  this  balcony,  for  instance,  that  Sly  and  his  attend- 
ants sat  while  they  witnessed  the  performance  of  The 
Taming  of  the  Shrezc.  The  wardrobes  of  the  principal 
theatres  were  rich,  varied,  and  costly.  It  was  customary 
to  buy  for  stage  use  slightly  worn  court  dresses  and  the 
gorgeous  robes  used  at  coronations.  Near  the  end  of  the 
last  century,  Steevens  tells  us,  there  was  "  yet  in  the  ward- 
robe of  Covent  Garden  Theatre  a  rich  suit  of  clothes  that 
once  belonged  to  James  I."  Steevens  saw  it  worn  by  the 
performer  of  Justice  Greely  in  Massinger's  New  Way  to 
pay  Old  Debts.  The  Allen  papers  and  Henslowe's  Diary 
inform  us  fully  upon  this  point.  In  the  latter  there  is  a 
memorandum  of  the  payment  of  £4.  14s.,  equal  to  $120, 
for  a  single  pair  of  hose ;  and  by  the  former  we  see  that 
£16,  equal  to  $400,  was  the  price  of  one  embroidered  vel- 
vet cloak,  and  £20  los.,  equal  t^  $512,  that  of  another. 
Costume  of  conventional  significance  was  also  worn  ;  for 
Henslowe  records  the  purchase  at  the  large  price  of 
£3  los.  of  "  a  robe  for  to  goo  invisibell.'' 

A  comparison  of  the  prices  paid  for  dresses,  with  those 
paid  for  the  plays  in  which  they  were  worn,  shows  us  that 
the  absence  of  scenery  and  of  stage  decoration,  to  which 
it  has  been  supposed  we  owe  much  of  the  rich  imagery 
in  the  Elizabethan  drama,  was  due  only  to  poverty  of 
resource,  and  not  to  the  higher  value  set  by  the  public, 
and  consequently  by  the  theatrical  proprietors,  upon  the 
intellectual  part  of  their  entertainment.  The  highest  sum 
which  Henslowe  records  as  having  been  paid  by  him  be- 
fore 1600,  as  the  full  price  of  a  play,  is  £8 — not  half  what 
vras  given  for  a  cloak  that  might  have  been  worn  in  it ; 
the  lowest  sum  is  £4 — not  as  much  as  the  hero's  hose 

53 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA 

might  have  cost.  By  1613,  theatrical  competition  had 
raised  the  price  of  a  play  by  a  dramatist  of  repute  to  £20, 
which,  being  equal  to  $500  of  the  present  day,  was  per- 
haps quite  as  much  as  the  proprietors  could  aflford,  and 
was  not  an  inadequate  payment  for  such  plays  as  went 
to  make  up  the  bulk  of  the  dramatic  productions  of  the 
day.  Happily,  nearly  all  of  these  have  perished ;  and 
of  those  which  have  survived,  the  best  claim  the  attention 
of  posterity  only  because  Shakespeare  lived  when  they 
were  written. 


54 


Culmination  of  the  Drama  in 
ShaKespeare. 


Culmination  of  the  Drama  in 
Shakespeare. 

BY  THOMAS  SPENCER  BAYNES. 


The  dramatic  conditions  of  a  national  theatre  were,  at  the 
outset  of  Shakespeare's  career,  more  complete,  or  rather 
in  a  more  advanced  state  of  development,  than  the  play- 
houses themselves  or  their  stage  accessories.  If  Shake- 
speare was  fortunate  in  entering  on  his  London  work 
amidst  the  full  tide  of  awakened  patriotism  and  public 
spirit,  he  was  equally  fortunate  in  finding  ready  to  his 
hand  the  forms  of  art  in  which  the  rich  and  complex  life 
of  the  time  could  be  adequately  expressed.  During  the 
decade  in  which  Shakespeare  left  Stratford  the  play- 
wright's art  had  undergone  changes  so  important  as  to 
constitute  a  revolution  in  the  form  and  spirit  of  the  na- 
tional drama.  For  twenty  years  after  the  accession  of 
Elizabeth  the  two  roots  whence  the  English  drama  sprang 
— the  academic  or  classical,  and  the  popular,  developed 
spontaneously  in  the  line  of  mysteries,  moralities  and  in- 
terludes— continued  to  exist  apart,  and  to  produce  their 
accustomed  fruit  independently  of  each  other. 

The  popular  drama,  it  is  true,  becoming  more  secular 
and  realistic,  enlarged  its  area  by  collecting  its  materials 
from  all  sources — from  novels,  tales,  ballads,  and  histories, 
as  well  as  from  fairy  mythology,  local  superstitions,  and 
folk-lore.  But  the  incongruous  materials  were,  for  the 
most  part,  liandled  in  a  crude  and  semi-barbarous  way, 
with  just  sufficient  art  to  satisfy  the  cravings  and  clamours 
of  unlettered   audiences.     The   academic   plays,    on   the 


CULMINATION  OF 

other  hand,  were  written  by  scholars  for  courtly  and  cul- 
tivated circles,  were  acted  at  the  universities,  the  inns  of 
court,  and  at  special  public  ceremonials,  and  followed  for 
the  most  part  the  recognised  and  restricted  rules  of  the 
classic  drama.  But  in  the  third  decade  of  Elizabeth's 
reign  another  dramatic  school  arose  intermediate  between 
the  two  elder  ones,  which  sought  to  combine  in  a  newer 
and  higher  form  the  best  elements  of  both.  The  main 
impulse  guiding  the  efforts  of  the  new  school  may  be 
traced  indirectly  to  a  classical  source.  It  was  due,  not 
immediately  to  the  masterpieces  of  Greece  and  Rome,  but 
to  the  form  which  classical  art  had  assumed  in  the  con- 
temporary drama  of  Italy,  France,  and  Spain,  especially 
of  Italy,  which  was  that  earliest  developed  and  best  known 
to  the  new  school  of  poets  and  dramatists.  This  southern 
drama,  while  academic  in  its  leading  features,  had  never- 
theless modern  elements  blended  with  the  ancient  form. 
As  the  Italian  epics,  following  in  the  main  the  older  ex- 
amples, were  still  charged  with  romantic  and  realistic  ele- 
ments unknown  to  the  classical  epic,  so  the  Italian  drama, 
constructed  on  the  lines  of  Seneca  and  Plautus,  blended 
with  the  severer  form,  essentially  romantic  features. 
With  the  choice  of  heroic  subjects,  the  orderly  develop- 
ment of  the  plot,  the  free  use  of  the  chorus,  the  observ- 
ance of  the  unities,  and  constant  substitution  of  narrative 
for  action  were  united  the  vivid  colouring  of  poetic  fancy 
and  diction,  and  the  use  of  materials  and  incidents  de- 
rived from  recent  history  and  contemporary  life. 

The  influence  of  the  Italian  drama  on  the  new  school 
of  English  playwrights  was,  however,  very  much  re- 
stricted to  points  of  style  and  diction  of  rhetorical  and 
poetical  effect.  It  helped  to  produce  among  them  the 
sense  of  artistic  treatment,  the  conscious  effort  after 
higher  and  more  elaborate  forms  and  vehicles  of  imagina- 
tive and  passionate  expression.  For  the  rest,  the  rising- 
English  drama,  in  spite  of  the  efforts  made  by  academic 
critics  to  narrow  its  range  and  limit  its  interests,  retained 
and  thoroughly  vindicated  its  freedom  and  independence 


THE  DRAMA 

The  central  characteristics  ot  the  new  school  are  suffi- 
ciently explained  by  the  fact  that  its  leading  representa- 
tives were  all  of  them  scholars  and  poets,  Hving  by  their 
wits  and  gaining  a  somewhat  precarious  livelihood  amidst 
the  stir  and  bustle,  the  'temptations  and  excitement,  of 
concentrated  London  life.  The  distinctive  note  of  their 
work  is  the  reflex  of  their  position  as  academic  scholars 
working  under  poetic  and  popular  impulses  for  the  public 
theatres.  The  new  and  striking  combination  in  their 
dramas  of  elements  hitherto  wholly  separated  is  but  the 
natural  result  of  their  attainments  and  literary  activities. 
From  their  university  training  and  knowledge  of  the  an- 
cients they  would  be  familiar  with  the  technical  require- 
ments of  dramatic  art,  the  deliberate  handling  of  plot, 
incident,  and  character,  and  the  due  subordination  of  parts 
essential  for  producing  the  effect  of  an  artistic  whole. 
Their  imaginative  and  emotional  sensibility,  stimulated  by 
their  studies  in  southern  literature,  would  naturally 
prompt  them  to  combine  features  of  poetic  beauty  and 
rhetorical  finish  with  the  evolution  of  character  and  ac- 
tion ;  while  from  the  popular  native  drama  they  derived 
the  breadth  of  sympathy,  sense  of  humour,  and  vivid  con- 
tact with  actual  life  which  gave  reality  and  power  to  their 
representations. 

The  leading  members  of  this  group  or  school  were  Kyd, 
Greene,  Lodge,  Nash,  Peele,  and  Marlowe,  of  whom,  in 
relation  to  the  future  developi-aent  of  the  drama,  Greene, 
Peele,  and  Marlowe  are  the  most  important  and  influential. 
They  were  almost  the  first  poets  and  men  of  genius  who 
devoted  themselves  to  the  production  of  dramatic  pieces 
for  the  public  theatres.  But  they  all  helped  to  redeem 
the  common  stasfes  from  the  reproach  their  rude  and  bois- 
terous pieces  had  brought  upon  them,  and  make  the  plays 
represented  poetical  and  artistic  as  well  as  lively,  bustling 
and  popular.  Some  did  this  rather  from  a  necessity  of 
nature  and  stress  of  circumstance  than  from  any  higher 
aim  or  deliberately  formed  resolve.  But  Marlowe,  the 
greatest  of  them,   avowed  the  redemption   of   the  com- 


CULMINATION  OF 

mon  stage  as  the  settled  purpose  of  his  labours  at  the  out- 
set of  his  dramatic  career.  And  during  his  brief  and 
stormy  life  he  nobly  discharged  the  self-imposed  task. 
His  first  play,  Tamhiirlaine  the  Great,  struck  the  authentic 
note  of  artistic  and  romantic  tragedy.  With  all  its  ex- 
travagance, and  overstraining  after  vocal  and  rhetorical 
effects,  the  play  throbs  with  true  passion  and  true  poetry, 
and  has  throughout  the  stamp  of  emotional  intensity  and 
intellectual  power.  His  later  tragedies,  while  marked  by 
the  same  features,  bring  into  fuller  relief  the  higher  char- 
acteristics of  his  passionate  and  poetical  genius. 

Alike  in  the  choice  of  subject  and  method  of  treatment 
Marlowe  is  thoroughly  independent,  deriving  little,  ex- 
cept in  the  way  of  general  stimulus,  either  from  the  classi- 
cal or  popular  drama  of  his  day.  The  signal  and  far- 
reaching  reforms  he  effected  in  dramatic  metre  by  the 
introduction  of  modulated  blank  verse  illustrates  the  stri- 
king originality  of  his  genius.  Gifted  wath  a  fine  ear  for 
the  music  of  English  numbers,  and  impatient  of  "  the 
gigging  veins  of  rhyming  mother  wits,"  he  introduced 
the  noble  metre  which  was  at  once  adopted  by  his  con- 
temporaries and  became  the  vehicle  of  the  great  Eliza- 
bethan drama.  The  new  metre  quickly  abolished  the 
rhyming  couplets  and  stanzas  that  had  hitherto  prevailed 
on  the  popular  stage.  The  rapidity  and  completeness  of 
this  metrical  revolution  is  in  itself  a  powerful  tribute  to 
Marlowe's  rare  insight  and  feeling  as  a  master  of  musical 
expression.  The  originality  and  importance  of  Marlowe's 
innovation  are  not  materially  affected  by  the  fact  that  one 
or  two  classical  plays,  such  as  Gorboduc  and  Jocasta,  had 
been  already  written  in  unrhymed  verse.  In  any  case 
these  were  private  plays,  and  the  monotony  of  cadence  and 
structure  in  the  verse  excludes  them  from  anything  like 
serious  comparison  with  the  richness  and  variety  of  vocal 
effect  produced  by  the  skilful  pauses  and  musical  inter- 
linking of  Marlowe's  heroic  metre. 

Greene  and  Peele  did  almost  as  much  for  romantic 
comedy   as    Marlowe   had    done    for    romantic    tragedy. 


THE  DRAMA 

Greene's  ease  and  lightness  of  touch,  his  freshness  of  feel- 
ing and  play  of  fancy,  his  vivid  sense  of  the  pathos  and 
beauty  of  homely  scenes  and  thorough  enjoyment  of  Eng- 
lish rural  life,  give  to  his  dramatic  sketches  the  blended 
charm  of  romance  and  reality  hardly  to  be  found  else- 
where except  in  Shakespeare's  early  comedies.  In  special 
points  of  lyrical  beauty  and  dramatic  portraiture,  such  as 
his  sketches  of  pure  and  devoted  women  and  of  witty  and 
amusing  clowns,  Greene  anticipated  some  of  the  more 
delightful  and  characteristic  features  of  Shakespearian 
comedy.  Peele's  lighter  pieces  and  Lyly's  prose  comedies 
helped  in  the  same  direction.  Although  not  written  for 
the  public  stage,  Lyly's  court  comedies  were  very  popular, 
and  Shakespeare  evidently  gained  from  their  light  and 
easy  if  somewhat  artificial  tone,  their  constant  play  of 
witty  banter  and  sparkling  repartee,  valuable  hints  for 
the  prose  of  his  own  comedies. 

Marlowe  again  prepared  the  way  for  another  character- 
istic development  of  Shakespeare's  dramatic  art.  His 
Edward  II.  marks  the  rise  of  the  historical  drama,  as  dis- 
tinguished from  the  older  chronicle  play,  in  which  the  an- 
nals of  a  reign  or  period  were  thrown  into  a  series  of 
loose  and  irregular  metrical  scenes.  Peele's  Edward  I., 
Marlowe's  Edward  11. ,  and  the  fine  ananymous  play  of 
Edzvard  III.,  in  which  many  critics  think  Shakespeare's 
hand  may  be  traced,  show  how  thoroughly  the  new  school 
had  felt  the  rising  national  pulse,  and  how  promptly  it 
responded  to  the  popular  demand  for  the  dramatic  treat- 
ment of  history.  The  greatness  of  contemporary  events 
had  created  a  new  sense  of  the  grandeur  and  continuity 
of  the  nation's  life,  and  excited  amongst  all  classes  a  vivid 
interest  in  the  leading  personalities  and  critical  struggles 
that  had  marked  its  progress.  There  was  a  strong  and 
general  feeling  in  favour  of  historical  subjects,  and  espe- 
cially historical  subjects  having  in  them  elements  of  tragi- 
cal depth  and  intensity.  Shakespeare's  own  early  plays — 
dealing  with  the  distracted  reign  of  King  John,  the  Wars 
of  the  Roses,  and  the  tragical  lives  of  Richard  II.  and 


CULMINATION  OF 

Richard  III. — illustrate  this  bent  of  popular  feeling.  The 
demand  being  met  by  men  of  poetical  and  dramatic  genius 
reacted  powerfully  on  the  spirit  of  the  age,  helping  in  turn 
to  illuminate  and  strengthen  its  loyal  and  patriotic  sym- 
pathies. 

This  is  in  fact  the  keynote  of  the  English  stage  in  the 
great  period  of  its  development.  It  was  its  breadth  of 
national  interest  and  intensity  of  tragic  power  that  made 
the  English  drama  so  immeasurably  superior  to  every 
other  contemporary  drama  in  Europe.  The  Italian  drama 
languished  because,  though  carefully  elaborated  in  point 
of  form,  it  had  no  fulness  of  national  life,  no 
common  elements  of  ethical  conviction  or  aspiration, 
to  vitalise  and  ennoble  it.  Even  tragedy,  in  the 
hands  of  Italian  dramatists,  had  no  depth  of  human 
passion,  no  energy  of  heroic  purpose,  to  give  higher 
meaning  and  power  to  its  evolution.  In  Spain  the 
dominant  courtly  and  ecclesiastical  influences  limited  the 
development  of  the  national  drama,  while  in  France  it 
remained  from  the  outset  under  the  artificial  restrictions 
of  classical  and  pseudo-classical  traditions.  Shake- 
speare's predecessors  and  contemporaries,  in  elevating  the 
common  stages,  and  filling  them  with  poetry,  music,  and 
passion,  had  attracted  to  the  theatre  all  classes,  including 
the  more  cultivated  and  refined  :  and  the  intelligent  inter- 
est, energetic  patriotism,  and  robust  life  of  so  representa- 
tive an  English  audience  supplied  the  strongest  stimulus 
to  the  more  perfect  development  of  the  great  organ  of 
national  expression.  The  forms  of  dramatic  art,  in  the 
three  main  departments  of  comedy,  tragedy,  and  historical 
drama,  had  been,  as  we  have  seen,  clearly  discriminated 
and  evolved  in  their  earlier  stages.  It  was  a  moment  of 
supreme  promise  and  expectation,  and  in  the  accidents 
of  earth,  or,  as  we  may  more  appropriately  and  gratefully 
say,  in  the  ordinances  of  heaven,  the  supreme  poet  and 
dramatist  appeared  to  more  than  fulfil  the  utmost  promise 
of  the  time. 

By  right  of  imperial  command  over  all  the  resources  of 

6 


THE  DRAMA 

imaginative  insight  and  expression  Shakespeare  combined 
the  rich  dramatic  materials  already  prepared  into  more 
perfect  forms,  and  carried  them  to  the  highest  point  of 
ideal  development.  He  quickly  surpassed  Marlowe  in 
passion,  music,  and  intellectual  power;  Greene  in  lyrical 
beauty,  elegiac  grace,  and  narrative  interest ;  Peele  in 
picturesque  touch  and  pastoral  sweetness  ;  and  Lyly  in 
bright  and  sparkling  dialogue.  And  having  distanced 
the  utmost  efforts  of  his  predecessors  and  contemporaries 
he  took  his  own  higher  way,  and  reigned  to  the  end  with- 
out a  rival  in  the  new  world  of  supreme  dramatic  art  he 
had  created.  It  is  a  new  world,  because  Shakespeare's 
work  alone  can  be  said  to  possess  the  organic  strength  and 
infinite  variety,  the  throbbing  fulness,  vital  complexity, 
and  breathing  truth  of  Nature  herself.  In  points  of  artis- 
tic resource  and  technical  ability — such  as  copious  and 
expressive  diction,  freshness  and  pregnancy  of  verbal 
combination,  richly  modulated  verse,  and  structural  skill 
in  the  handling  of  incident  and  action — Shakespeare's  su- 
premacy is  indeed  sufficiently  assured.  But,  after  all,  it 
is  of  course  in  the  spirit  and  substance  of  his  work,  his 
power  of  piercing  to  the  hidden  centres  of  character,  of 
touching  the  deepest  springs  of  impulse  and  passion,  out 
of  which  are  the  issues  of  life,  and  of  evolving  those  issues 
dramatically  with  a  flawless  strength,  subtlety,  and  truth, 
which  raises  him  so  immensely  above  and  beyond  not  only 
the  best  of  the  playwrights  who  went  before  him,  but  the 
whole  line  of  illustrious  dramatists  that  came  after  him. 
It  is  Shakespeare's  unique  distinction  that  he  has  an  abso- 
lute command  over  all  the  complexities  of  thought  and 
feeling  that  prompt  to  action  and  bring  out  the  dividing 
lines  of  character.  He  sweeps  with  the  hand  of  a  master 
the  whole  gamut  of  human  experience,  from  the  lowest 
note  to  the  very  top  of  its  compass,  from  the  sportive 
childish  treble  of  Mamillius  and  the  pleading  boyish  tones 
of  Prince  Arthur,  up  to  the  spectre-haunted  terrors  of 
Macbeth,  the  tropical  passion  of  Othello,  the  agonised 
sense  and  tortured  spirit  of  Hamlet,  the  sustained  ele- 


CULMINATION  OF 

mental  grandeur,  the  Titanic  force,  and  utterly  tragical 
pathos  of  Lear. 

Shakespeare's  active  dramatic  career  in  London  lasted 
about  twenty  years,  and  may  be  divided  into  three  toler- 
ably symmetrical  periods.  The  first  extends  from  the 
year  1587  to  about  1593-94;  the  second,  from  this  date 
to  the  end  of  the  century;  and  the  third,  from  1600  to 
about  1608,  soon  after  which  time  Shakespeare  ceased  to 
write  regularly  for  the  stage,  was  less  in  London  and  more 
and  more  at  Stratford.  Some  modern  critics  add  to  these 
a  fourth  period,  including  the  few  plays  which  from  inter- 
nal as  well  as  external  evidence  must  have  been  amongst 
the  poet's  latest  productions.  As  the  exact  date  of  these 
plays  are  unknown,  this  period  may  be  taken  to  extend 
from  1608  to  about  161 2.  The  three  dramas  produced 
during  these  years  are,  however,  hardly  entitled  to  be 
ranked  as  a  separate  period.  They  may  rather  be  re- 
garded as  supplementary  to  the  grand  series  of  dramas 
belonging  to  the  third  and  greatest  epoch  of  Shakespeare's 
productive  power.  To  the  first  period  belong  Shake- 
speare's early  tentative  efforts  in  revising  and  partially 
rewriting  plays  produced  by  others  that  already  had  pos- 
session of  the  stage.  These  eiTorts  are  illustrated  in  the 
three  parts  of  Henry  VI.,  especially  the  second  and  third 
parts,  which  bear  decisive  marks  of  Shakespeare's  hand, 
and  were  to  a  great  extent  recast  and  rewritten  by  him. 
It  is  clear  from  the  internal  evidence  thus  supplied  that 
Shakespeare  was  at  first  powerfully  affected  by  "  Alar- 
lowe's  mighty  line."  This  influence  is  so  marked  in  the 
revised  second  and  third  parts  of  Henry  [7.  as  to  induce 
some  critics  to  believe  Marlowe  must  have  had  a  hand 
in  the  revision.  These  passages  are,  however,  sufficiently 
explained  by  the  fact  of  Marlowe's  influence  during  the 
first  period  of  Shakespeare's  career.  To  the  same  period 
also  belong  the  earliest  tragedy,  that  of  Titus  Andronicus, 
and  the  three  comedies — Love's  Labour 's  Lost,  The  Com- 
edy of  Errors,  and  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona.  These 
dramas  are  all  marked  by  the  dominant  literary  influences 

8 


THE  DRAMA 

of  the  time.  They  present  features  obviously  due  to  the 
revived  and  widespread  knowledge  of  classical  literature, 
as  well  as  to  the  active  interest  in  the  literature  of  Italy 
and  the  South.  Titus  Andronicus,  in  many  of  its  char- 
acteristic features,  reflects  the  form  of  Roman  traged;. 
almost  universally  accepted  and  followed  in  the  earlier 
period  of  the  drama.  This  form  was  supplied  by  the 
Latin  plays  of  Seneca,  their  darker  colours  being  deepened 
by  the  moral  effect  of  the  judicial  tragedies  and  military 
conflicts  of  the  time.  The  execution  of  the  Scottish  queen 
and  the  Catholic  conspirators  who  had  acted  in  her  name, 
and  the  destruction  of  the  Spanish  Armada,  had  given 
an  impulse  to  tragic  representations  of  an  extreme  type. 
This  was  undoubtedly  rather  fostered  than  otherwise  by 
the  favourite  exemplars  of  Roman  tragedy.  The  Medea 
and  Thyestes  of  Seneca  are  crowded  with  pagan  horrors 
of  the  most  revolting  kind.  It  is  true  these  horrors  are 
usually  related,  not  represented,  although  in  the  Medea 
the  maddened  heroine  kills  her  children  on  the  stage. 
But  from  these  tragedies  the  conception  of  the  physically 
horrible  as  an  element  of  tragedy  was  imported  into  the 
early  English  drama,  and  intensified  by  the  realistic  ten- 
dency which  the  events  of  the  time  and  the  taste  of  their 
ruder  audiences  had  impressed  upon  the  common  stages. 
This  tendency  is  exemplified  in  Titus  Andronicus,  obvi- 
ously a  very  early  work,  the  signs  of  youthful  effort  being 
apparent  not  only  in  the  acceptance  of  so  coarse  a  type  of 
tragedy  but  in  the  crude  handling  of  character  and  mo- 
tive, and  the  want  of  harmony  in  working  out  the  details 
of  the  dramatic  conception.  Kyd  was  the  most  popular 
contemporary  representative  of  the  bloody  school,  and  in 
the  leading  motives  of  treachery,  concealment,  and  re- 
venge there  are  points  of  likeness  between  Titus  Androni- 
cus and  The  Spanish  Tragedy.  But  how  promptly  and 
completely  Shakespeare's  nobler  nature  turned  from  this 
lower  type  is  apparent  from  the  fact  that  he  not  only  never 
reverted  to  it  but  indirectly  ridicules  the  piled-up  horrors 
and  extravagant  language  of  Kyd's  plays. 

9 


CULMINATION  OF 

The  early  comedies  in  the  same  way  are  marked  bv 
the  dorrynant  Hterary  influences  of  the  time,  partly  classic, 
partly  Italian.  In  The  Comedy  of  Errors,  for  example, 
Shakespeare  attempted  a  humorous  play  of  the  old  classi- 
cal type,  the  general  plan  and  many  details  being  derived 
directly  from  Plautus.  In  Love's  Labour's  Lost  many 
characteristic  features  of  Italian  comedy  are  freely  intro- 
duced :  the  pedant  Holofernes,  the  curate  Sir  Nathaniel, 
the  fantastic  braggadocio  soldier  Armado,  are  all  well- 
known  characters  of  the  contemporary  Italian  drama.  Of 
this  comedy,  indeed,  Gervinus  says :  *'  The  tone  of  the 
Italian  school  prevails  here  more  than  in  any  other  play. 
The  redundance  of  wit  is  only  to  be  compared  with  a  simi- 
lar redundance  of  conceit  inShakespeare'snarrative  poems, 
and  with  the  Italian  style  which  he  had  early  adopted." 
These  comedies  display  another  sign  of  early  work  in  the 
mechanical  exactness  of  the  plan  and  a  studied  symmetry 
in  the  grouping  of  the  chief  personages  of  the  drama.  In 
the  Tivo  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  as  Prof.  Dowden  points 
out,  "  Proteus  the  fickle  is  set  against  Valentine  the  faith- 
ful, Silvia  the  light  and  intellectual  against  Julia  the  ar- 
dent and  tender,  Launce  the  humourist  against  Speed  the 
wit."  So  in  Love's  Labour 's  Lost  the  king  and  his  three 
fellow  students  balance  the  princess  and  her  three  ladies, 
and  there  is  a  symmetrical  play  of  incident  between  the 
two  groups.  The  arrangement  is  obviously  more  artificial 
than  spontaneous,  more  mechanical  than  vital  and  organic. 
But  towards  the  close  of  the  first  period  Shakespeare  had 
fully  realised  his  own  power  and  was  able  to  dispense  with 
these  artificial  supports.  Indeed,  having  rapidly  gained 
laiowledge  and  experience,  he  had  before  the  close  written 
':>lays  of  a  far  higher  character  than  anv  which  even  the 
ablest  of  his  contemporaries  had  produced.  He  had 
firmly  laid  the  foundation  of  his  future  fame  in  the  direc- 
tion both  of  comedy  and  tragedy,  for,  besides  the  comedies 
already  referred  to,  the  first  sketches  of  Hamlet  and  Ro- 
meo and  Juliet  and  the  tragedy  of  Richard  IIL  may  prob- 
ably be  referred  to  this  period. 

10 


THE  DRAMA 

Another  mark  of  early  work  belonging  to  these  dramas 
is  the  lyrical  and  elegiac  tone  and  treatment  associated 
with  the  use  of  rhyme,  of  rhyming  couplets  and  stanzas. 
Spenser's  musical  verse  had  for  the  time  elevated  the 
character  of  rhyming  metres  by  identifying  them  with  the 
highest  kinds  of  poetry,  and  Shakespeare  was  evidently  at 
first  affected  by  this  powerful  impulse.  He  rhymed  with 
great  facility,  and  delighted  in  the  gratification  of  his 
lyrical  fancy  and  feeling  which  the  more  musical  rhyming 
metres  afforded.  Rhyme  accordingly  has  a  considerable 
and  not  inappropriate  place  in  the  earlier  romantic  come- 
dies. The  Comedy  of  Errors  has  indeed  been  described 
as  a  kind  of  lyrical  farce  in  which  the  opposite  qualities  of 
elegiac  beauty  and  comic  effect  are  happily  blended. 
Rhyme,  however,  at  this  period  of  the  poet's  work  is  not 
restricted  to  the  comedies.  It  is  largely  used  in  the  trage- 
dies and  histories  as  well,  and  plan's  even  an  important 
part  in  historical  drama  so  late  as  Richard  II. 

Whatever  question  may  be  raised  with  regard  to  the 
superiority  of  some  of  the  plays  belonging  to  the  first 
period  of  Shakespeare's  dramatic  career,  there  can  be  no 
question  at  all  as  to  any  of  the  pieces  belonging  to  the 
second  period,  which  extends  to  the  end  of  the  century. 
During  these  years  Shakespeare  works  as  a  master,  hav- 
ing complete  command  over  the  materials  and  resources 
of  the  most  mature  and  flexible  dramatic  art:  "  To  this 
stage,"  says  Mr.  Swinburne,  ''  belongs  the  special  faculty 
of  faultless,  joyous,  facile  command  upon  each  faculty 
required  of  the  presiding  genius  for  service  or  for  sport. 
It  is  in  the  middle  period  of  his  work  that  the  language  of 
Shakespeare  is  most  limpid  in  its  fulness,  the  style  most 
pure,  the  thought  most  transparent  through  the  close  and 
luminous  raiment  of  perfect  expression."  This  period  in- 
cludes the  magnificent  series  of  historical  plays — Richard 
II.,  the  two  parts  of  Henry  IV.,  and  Henry  V. — and  a 
double  series  of  brilliant  comedies.  The  Midsummer- 
Night's  Dream,  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  and  The  Mer- 
chant of  Venice  were  produced  before  1598,  and  during 

II 


CULMINATION  Or 

the  next  three  years  there  appeared  a  still  more  com- 
plete and  characteristic  group,  including  Much  Ado  About 
Nothing,  As  You  Like  It,  and  Tz^elfth  Night.  These 
comedies  and  historical  plays  are  all  marked  by  a  rare 
harmony  of  reflective  and  imaginative  insight,  perfection 
of  creative  art,  and  completeness  of  dramatic  eifect.  Be- 
fore the  close  of  this  period,  in  1598,  Francis  Meres  paid 
his  celebrated  tribute  to  Shakespeare's  superiority  in  lyri- 
cal, descriptive,  and  dramatic  poetry,  emphasising  his  un- 
rivalled distinction  in  the  three  main  departments  of  the 
drama — comedy,  tragedy,  and  historical  play.  And  from 
this  time  onwards  the  contemporary  recognitions  of 
Shakespeare's  eminence  as  a  poet  and  dramatist  rapidly 
multiply,  the  critics  and  eulogists  being  in  most  cases  well 
entitled  to  speak  with  authority  on  the  subject. 

In  the  third  period  of  Shakespeare's  dramatic  career 
years  had  evidently  brought  enlarged  vision,  wider 
thoughts,  and  deeper  experiences.  While  the  old  mastery 
of  art  remains,  the  works  belonging  to  this  period  seem  to 
bear  traces  of  more  intense  moral  struggles,  larger  and 
less  joyous  views  of  human  life,  more  troubled,  complex, 
and  profound  conceptions  and  emotions.  Comparatively 
few  marks  of  the  lightness  and  animation  of  the  earlier 
works  remain,  but  at  the  same  time  the  dramas  of  this 
period  display  an  unrivalled  power  of  piercing  the  deepest 
mysteries  and  sounding  the  most  tremendous  and  perplex- 
ing problems  of  human  life  and  human  destiny.  To  this 
period  belong  the  four  great  tragedies — Hamlet,  Macbeth, 
Othello,  Lear ;  the  three  Roman  plays — Coriolanus,  Julius 
Cccsar,  Antony  and  Cleopatra ;  the  two  singular  plays 
whose  scene  and  personages  are  Greek  but  whose  action 
and  meaning  are  wider  and  deeper  than  either  Greek  or 
Roman  life — Troilus  and  Cressida  and  Timon  of  Athens; 
and  one  comedy — Measure  for  Measure,  which  is  almost 
tragic  in  the  depth  and  intensity  of  its  characters  and  inci- 
dents. The  four  great  tragedies  represent  the  highest 
reach  of  Shakespeare's  dramatic  power,  and  they  suffi- 
ciently illustrate  the  range  and  complexity  of  the  deeper 


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THE  DRAMA 

problems  that  now  occupied  his  mind.     Timon  and  Meas- 
ure for  Measure,  however,  exempHfy  the  same  tendency  to 
brood   with   meditative    intensity   over   the   wrongs    and 
miseries  that  afflict  humanity.     These  works  sufficiently 
prove  that  during  this  period  Shakespeare  gained  a  dis- 
turbing insight  into  the  deeper  evils  of  the  world,  arising 
from  the  darker  passions,  such  as  treachery  and  revenge. 
But  it  is  also  clear  that,  with  the  larger  vision  of  a  noble, 
well-poised  nature,  he  at  the  same  time  gained  a  fuller 
perception  of  the  deeper  springs  of  goodness  in  human 
nature,  of  the  great  virtues  of  invincible  fidelity  and  un- 
wearied love,  and  he  evidently  received  not  only  consola- 
tion and  calm  but  new  stimulus  and  power  from  the  fuller 
realisation   of  these  virtues.     The  typical  plays  of  this 
period  thus  embody   Shakespeare's  ripest  experience  of 
the  great  issues  of  life.     In  the  four  grand  tragedies  the 
central  problem  is  a  profoundly  moral  one.     It  is  the 
supreme  internal  conflict  of  good  and  evil  amongst  the 
central  forces  and  higher  elements  of  human  nature,  as 
appealed  to  and  developed  by  sudden  and  powerful  temp- 
tation, smitten  by  accumulated  wrongs,  or  plunged  in  over- 
whelming calamities.     As  the  result,  we  learn  that  there 
is  something  infinitely  more  precious  in  life  than  social 
ease   or  worldly   success — nobleness   of   soul,   fidelity   to 
truth  and  honour,  human  love  and  loyalty,  strength  and 
londerness,  and  trust  to  the  very  end.     In  the  most  tragic 
experiences  this  fidelity  to  all  that  is  best  in  life  is  only 
possible  through  the  loss  of  life  itself.     But  when  Desde- 
mona  expires  with  a  sigh  and  Cordelia's  loving  eyes  are 
closed,  when  Hamlet  no  more  draws  his  breath  in  pain 
and  the  tempest-tossed  Lear  is  at  last  liberated  from  the 
rack  of  this  tough  world,  we  feel  that,  Death  having  set 
his  sacred  seal  on  their  great  sorrows  and  greater  love, 
they  remain  with  us  as  possessions  for  ever.     In  the  three 
dramas  belonging  to  Shakespeare's  last  period,  or  rather 
which  may  be  said  to  close  his  dramatic  career,  the  same 
feeling  of  severe  but  consolatory  calm  is  still  more  appar- 
ent.    If  the  deeper  discords  of  life  are  not  finally  resolved, 

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CULMINATION  OF  THE  DRAMA 

the  virtues  which  soothe  their  perplexities  and  give  us 
courage  and  endurance  to  wait,  as  well  as  confidence  to 
trust  the  final  issues — the  virtues  of  forgiveness  and  gen- 
erosity, of  forbearance  and  self-control — are  largely  illus- 
trated. This  is  a  characteristic  feature  in  each  of  these 
closing  dramas,  in  The  Winter's  Tale,  Cymheline,  and  The 
Tempest.  The  Tempest  is  supposed,  on  tolerably  good 
grounds,  to  be  Shakespeare's  last  work,  and  in  it  we  see 
the  great  magician,  having  gained  by  the  wonderful  ex- 
perience of  life,  and  the  no  less  wonderful  practice  of  his 
art,  serene  wisdom,  clear  and  enlarged  vision,  and  bene- 
ficent self-control,  break  his  magical  wand  and  retire  from 
the  scene  of  his  triumphs  to  the  home  he  had  chosen 
amidst  the  woods  and  meadows  of  the  Avon,  and  sur 
rounded  by  the  family  and  friends  he  loved. 


14 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA-LOS  ANGELES 


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